


A Gentleman

by Grimmy88



Series: Odd Couple [1]
Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Forced Feminization, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Misogyny, Mutilation, Non-Consensual Blow Jobs, Nursing, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Abuse, Surgery, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-08
Updated: 2014-11-11
Packaged: 2018-02-03 22:44:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1758815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grimmy88/pseuds/Grimmy88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a request on tumblr: </p><p>    Eddie chases Waylon and witnesses him plunging headlong into an elevator shaft and injuring his leg. Knowing he can't 'fix' and marry his Darling when she is suffering he takes it upon himself to heal her injury.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1 - Eddie

            His _Darling_.

            She was beautiful, so much more beautiful than the others and she would be more beautiful still. Not that the others mattered now, no! But he could see in her eyes, wide and expressive, that she was different.

            She was frightened at first, understandably and rightfully so. Eddie had acted a rash fool throwing himself against the door like that. Admittedly it couldn’t be helped. He’d seen her and his chest, his heart had filled with elation. He’d seen her _again_ , his mind supplied, some dim recollection tucked away as if knowingly waiting for their reconnection.

            He’d apologized sincerely and expressed this revelation to her. She was there so she must have remembered him. And to come looking for him! Forward for a lady, yes, but initiative and devotion were good qualities in a wife and even better ones in a mother.

            “Let me fill you up.”

            His Darling was hiding so there was an enigmatic shyness to her, surely a sign of her purity. Oh, how different she could be.

            “You don’t have to be alone anymore,” he promised. “I can fill that emptiness inside you.”

            Eddie gave a moment for his intended’s response. None came forth but a slight hitch of breath indicating just which desk she used as shelter. He settled his hands atop it as gently, as quietly as he could manage. It wouldn’t do to spook her further.

            “You don’t have to run from me, I only want to love you.” He balanced his weight on those hands, lifted and prepared a foot on the surface beside them. “I know, you’re lonely like I am. Don’t you want love? A family? Someone to take care of you?”

            She bolted the moment the desk gave a grunt at his weight hoisting over it. A nimble thing, his fiancé! She flittered away from the reach of his hand as he doubled back to intercept her.

            He let her go and felt his smile pull wider because of it. He wouldn’t deny her this little game, not when he’d cut their courtship so short with his admissions. A girl like that deserved some attention, deserved effort.

            Eddie was a gentleman. He was a lover. He was _her_ lover and he’d act like it.

            He opened the door she had shut to slow his pursuit. “You’re going to make me work for it, aren’t you, you minx?”

            She was quite good at eluding him. Although Eddie knew the layout of his little home his love was quite masterful at darting and skittering through it. He’d never given much thought to athletics in regards to women but he found it admirable now. He knew she was different. That physicality could certainly set her apart from those before. She could endure when he fixed her and thus give him strong, able children.

            “You really could be the one,” he murmured. Then he sang to her. He may not have had the best voice but he’d been practicing. He thought she’d appreciate it.

            But she continued to run. She even shoved one of the metal cabinets from a door he’d barred some time ago! He almost caught her then but when she slammed the door between them. She hadn’t even met his eyes! Well, Eddie couldn’t stop the stirrings of dread in his chest at that.

            He threw open the door. “Let me love you!” He gave chase, wearing of their game, leery of her intentions, wary of her current path. “I want you to have my baby!”

            She was heading right for the elevator.

            “Don’t leave me; I can’t be alone!”

            The lift wasn’t there so she jumped. Eddie faltered with disbelief. He got there only to see the decrepit ladder onto which his beloved placed her trust break and snap dropping her down.

            The similarity to his feelings made it quite ironic. Still his care and worry for her won out over his anger, especially when she cried out.

            “Oh, God.” He watched her rip something—a bit of wood?—out of her lower leg. “Oh, God, tell me you’re okay! I can’t bear to think of you suffering without me!”

            The pain-laced glare he received and the anger, the fury there forced Eddie back to himself. “Why would you do something like that to yourself?!” That earlier doubt gripped hold and turned to dread. “You’d rather…rather die than be with me?” The dread morphed into an all-too-familiar rage. He slammed the safety cage shut. “Then die.”

            Wrong. He’d been wrong and _betrayed_. He’d tried and they’d all betrayed him. This special one, his one? Just like all the others who had led him on! Wanting the attention and then denying him? Taking all his words and promises and trampling all over them!

            He would watch her rise and he would watch her be crushed just the way she had crushed him. She should thank him, the slut, for she wouldn’t have to endure the heartbreak. His was a fate far worse than hers.

            But she was not there when he expected. She’d gotten out on the floor below. To save her miserable life, he wondered, or was she now unsure as he?

            “What have you…” He chuckled harshly. “Then we continue.”

            He wouldn’t play anymore. If there was a part of her that wanted forgiveness he could give it. There must have been a part of her that felt regret at her actions. If not…if not he would do the world a favor and remove yet another disloyal tramp from its ranks.

            There was a blood trail, spattering evidence of her path for him to follow. He could hear her breath and he wondered if he tried hard enough if he could smell her.

            “I don’t know why you’d do this to me,” he told her. “I want to make you happy, don’t you understand?”

            She was in front of him then and her limping let him keep his pace, let him keep his thoughts. And he thought about her leg and how stubborn and stupid she was to continue running on it. He was proven correct when she stumbled and her hands grappled at the wall to barely save her from another fall.

            Eddie stopped so he could stare at her. He received a surprise when she turned to stare back.

            “Darling, why are you making me do this?” He motioned to her leg. “Let me help you.” He took a step which caused her to take one but when he froze so did she. She didn’t want to run but she wouldn’t let him close?

            “The part of you the world sees they think is perfect, as God intended, even these idiots and lunatics see it; there’s something special about you…” He seemed to have her attention with the streaming thoughts currently slipping unchecked from his mouth. “…On the surface. When they look deeper, when anybody with eyes looks at what you truly are that’s why they don’t trust you.”

            Her back was to the wall now, shoulders sagging as she leant her weight. She smacked a loose fist to the chipping paint beside her hip and spoke, finally she spoke. “What does that even mean?!” And, oh, what a voice. He couldn’t explain the sudden resurgence of his adoration.

            “You’re not what you’re meant to be, not yet,” he explained. He rested his hand to his heart to calm his affection and to beseech hers. “This place can see into your mind and the things you’ve done, oh, they’re a sin, darling. But a flower is only as sweet as the oil that nourishes it and yours _needs_ nourishing and pruning and care.”

            Eddie walked to her and she took off again. It made sense now after their conversation. He’d been right in assuming his love a virgin and no wonder there was so much fear about her. Perhaps she had disarming experiences with men before—men who were animals and not gentlemen like Eddie.

            No, he knew what some men could be like. He knew of their disregard for pain or virtue when faced with their vulgar urges. Her fleeing made sense but he’d been too sensitive to realize it. Of course she carried some of the blame. If she had only explained…but then again a good woman wouldn’t want to burden her man.

            Oh, he was so torn.

            His love had nowhere to go, all the doors Eddie had locked made sure of that. When he drew closer it was easy to spot her orange garment as she ducked into a locker.

            “I can smell my love’s arbor. Darling, you can’t hide from me.” Especially not there but still he approached hesitantly before decided to press his hands to the metal quite forcibly in order to hold it shut. “I could still forgive you.”

            There was a gasp, perhaps a sob as her hands slapped against his from within the locker. “Please!”

            His heart soared! “Yes, yes, of course I do! Oh, Darling, I _knew_.” He peered in through the vents. Her pretty eyes, wide and red-rimmed were waiting. “But you’ve gone and hurt yourself…I can patch you up but promise me no running, my love, no more running from me.”

            She had no words only painfully drawn breaths.

            “Darling,” he warned. “I’m going to open this and if you run--…”

            “I won’t! I won’t!” Her face was in her hands now; she was no doubt ashamed of her actions as she should be. She didn’t move as he opened the locker and Eddie had to draw those soft hands from her face and in doing so drew her from hiding. His love still did not meet his eyes and even though she was forgiven it charmed him that she was displaying her submission.

            “I’ve been a little vulgar, I know,” he began, “and I want to say I’m sorry.” He placed two fingers beneath her chin and drew her gaze upwards. “I just--…” It was he who looked away briefly here. “You know how a man gets when he wants to know a woman. But after the ceremony…” a tremble started in her fingers, “when I’ve made an honest woman of you I’ll be a better man.”

            It was a promise to her a much as a vow to himself. He would make them both very happy. He tried to draw her closer only to be frightened by her wince. “Oh, but first your leg, my Darling. We can’t _walk_ down the aisle if you can’t _walk_.”

            Eddie swept her up into his arms and she flailed adorably before grabbing fistfuls of his vest for balance. That tremble was still there. “The perfect wedding to unite the perfect couple so we can create the perfect family.”

            He carried her to their future bed. Now he would have saved it for their wedding night but he didn’t have much of a choice. His love needed healing and comfort. As for the latter he spoke to her of his intentions, his desires and hopes and dreams for their life together. He could think of nothing more comforting.

            He placed her atop the bed and cradled her for a moment longer than necessary. When he withdrew she remained still.

            “I have everything we need to fix your leg.” He showed her as much: he had acquired several items while making their home—alcohol, wipes, water, and bandages—everything he’d need to create a mother and help her birth a child. Not to mention he could easily sew up what needed help in order to properly heal. Above all there was one item he cherished, one that made everything much easier. It was rare, his spray, he’d only pilfered a few bottles. He’d used it only twice before against particular women.

            To be correct they were particular sluts who had been hell-bent on not only leaving him with emotional scars but physical ones as well. They’d been behemoths—ugly, fat whores on whom he should have never cast a look. But he’d been lonely and foolish. Now, looking at the beauty before him he felt more the fool for his lack of faith.

            In the end he supposed he was the one sitting on his wedding bed overcome with joy while those cows were hanging with all the other betrayers. No use dwelling on unpleasant mistakes.

            He tucked the bottle in the waist of his pants opting for his knife for now. His fiancé immediately attempted to flip her body. Eddie had to wrench her wrist back to stop her. She cried out, a little more dramatically than was necessary, but better a little twist there than her ankle.

            “What did I say before?” he demanded. “I’m going to cut this dreadful thing off you. I’m sorry to say that orange really isn’t your color.” He began oh so delicately at the neckline and his love shook. He couldn’t deny his own excitement as he revealed her skin.

            Until he reached her vulgarity. He went flaccid quickly enough and found that he had to draw the corner of the sheets over her hips to hide the deformity. It was for the best, for now. He’d be able to focus on her wound. He’d be able to put everything out of mind for she could not be fixed until she was fully healed, until she was at her full strength.

            The wound was ugly but he couldn’t see any bits of wood or cloth that would complicate things. Of course he wouldn’t really know until he looked closely and reached within but he knew he could clean it. He knew he could sew it. He knew where medicine and antibiotics and food and water were. He knew she would be fine so long as he was there.

            Eddie didn’t give her warning. He sprayed the contents of his bottle directly at her nose and mouth. She gagged but her first shocked intake made her suck in more sleep-laden air again and again until finally her eyes began to droop.

            He kissed each closed eyelid when he could to steel himself for the surgery. He was quite good at these things now. He knew to clean his hands and to sanitize his tweezers before sticking them into the bloodied hole in his love’s leg. He knew not to jab but to pinch and pull. He tweezed out a few brown pieces—well he believed they were brown after thumbing away all the red—and a few pink pieces. When it was impossible to see or feel more of either he stopped his quest.

            He knew then to drain and clean the wound. Draining was simple enough; he wrapped his fingers around the delicate limb and applied as much force as he dared. It was a little fascinating to watch the pink and dark, dark red spill over his fingers.

            He knew cleaning the injury was up to the alcohol he had gathered. He’d found so much he was willing to share. She had shifted in her slumber while he’d drained her but when he poured the liquid over the hole she groaned quite loudly and gave a forceful dream kick that Eddie halted easily. He could only imagine the bruise he might have gotten had he not prevented her the pain! He continued to swat those jerking movements aside as he blotted and wiped and double checked that everything was raw and bleeding and organic.

            Then, after sterilizing his needles, he began sewing. He was proud of how adept he’d become. She’d already seen as much with his vest but wait until she saw her leg upon waking. Wait until she saw her dress.

            Her skin was a little more stubborn than fabric but Eddie was nothing if not persistent. He knew to use his strongest needle and thread but to also pull carefully. His first attempts had ripped right through that top layer of the human body. AT that point it made the process futile. Other times, too afraid to pull, he hadn’t drawn the skin close enough. Those cases had been more stomach-curling than just leaving the wounds open. At least with the former the blood would keep seeping until it no longer became an issue for him but the latter cases left the girls growing uglier and weaker and sicker until he couldn’t stand their whining or their smell.

            Those girls he never strung up. The thought of things so ugly hanging nearby made him rather disgruntled.

            No, he’d become very adept and his new love, his true love was strong. Her skin slid together under his administrations. Her body barely stirred with each pierce at the jagged edges. Everything about her seemed so responsive now, so obedient.

            Once finished he knew to clean the area again, knew to bandage and position her comfortably. And then, with her hair curling around her head on that pillow, he couldn’t stop from pressing a kiss to her slack mouth. It was a chaste thing, something to tide him over until she woke. Until she could respond in kind.

            There was a scream and then a groan somewhere behind him—two different voices echoing with quieter sounds of thrashing, bound bodies. It confused him at first before his memory caught up. Yes, he remembered now—he’d only found his true love because he had been looking for a certain knife to fix another woman! What a story for their children!

            The two yelling for him were whores, he swiftly decided. He’d humor them, hear what they had to say, to offer, to promise but he knew their game. He knew they would say anything to gain his favor now, to distract him from his love, to benefit themselves. He knew if given the chance they would speak ill of her to promote themselves! He knew how sluts thought.

            He should have known earlier when he’d had to backhand them to silence, when he’d had to tie them down that they weren’t wife material.

            But Eddie had been lonely. Now he would be a gentleman and show them they could never be half the woman as the one before him. He’d let them down easy even though he’d never been granted such a kindness.

            But for now they could wait. He had hours before his fiancé awoke and, though beautiful, it was clear by the hair growth on her body that she had been lost in the dark for far too long. He left for a moment so he could return with a water bowl, his own shaving cream, and his razor because he didn’t mind helping.

            Eddie was nothing if not a gentleman.


	2. Part 2 - Waylon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waylon needs to find a way out, he needs to come up with a plan, he needs to play the part.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for being so late with this chapter! My mother has been sick the last week and a half so I've been taking care of her which has taken up much of my time and had my concentration completely shot.
> 
> Thanks for your patience and as always thanks for reading!

            Waylon turned from the hands on his face because they were large and oddly callused. Although his vision was blurry and he could probably sleep another three hours he knew it was that lunatic. He was getting really sick of being manhandled by lunatics.

            “Darling,” he practically sang. “Darling, I need you to sit up.”

            Waylon was torn on cooperating. Since his begging in the locker, a plea for his own life mistaken as one for forgiveness, had kept him alive he’d allowed this guy, this Eddie Gluskin, to take him without a struggle. At the time it had seemed a better option than a knife in the gut.

            Now with his mind a mist and his leg ablaze he wasn’t so sure.

            Gluskin presumably took his silence for weakness and slipped an arm around him to leverage him up. This left him slumping against and relying on his strong frame. That was another thing, his mind supplied, with all these experiments and utter chaos none of his attackers had any right to be so built, especially when they already had violent insanity fueling them.

            “Look,” Gluskin murmured. There was a sudden breeze against his legs and only then did Waylon open his eyes. His ankle was wrapped with bandages and dyed pink by his blood.

            His first instinct led him to reach out with his hands in attempt to untie the wrappings and see the damage. He didn’t get very far both in his inebriation and because of two large hands intercepting and practically swallowing his own.

            “No, no. You’re going to make it worse. You’re all sewn up and need to let it heal.” The fingers of one of Gluskin’s hands coiled around his wrists forcing them together so that the free ones could run along the length of Waylon’s pectoral. “You’re a bit of a mess…and it will scar,” the patient chuckled, “but who doesn’t have scars? You’ll still be beautiful.”

            The programmer turned his body and stopped, not only because of the pain but because of the alien caress the sheets gave him. He had to look down at his own arm for the reason: this guy had shaved him and by the feel of it, all of him.

            “I would never think to be so… so crude with you, my dear,” Gluskin explained. He shifted their combined weight to the side of the bed. “But I thought you’d appreciate a little hygiene after what you’ve been through.”

            Waylon’s chin was directed so that he looked at a bedside table, or desk, covered with food. It looked like crackers and cookies mostly but amongst it all a plastic cup of shockingly clear water stood tall complimented with a little white pill beside it.

            “That’s an antibiotic for you, Darling,” was the answer to his unspoken question. It was even presented to him so that he could inspect the bottle’s foreign medical words for authenticity. “But you shouldn’t have it on an empty stomach.”

            Waylon didn’t ask for a rousing tale of how this psycho had gathered the food though it was clear that’s what was expected. He focused, and he truly had to focus, on shoving as much as he could handle in his mouth knowing he’d need energy when he woke next.

            He was about to open and inhale another pack of cookies but Gluskin swatted it from his hand. “Too many sweets and you won’t be able to fit in your dress.”

            Waylon swallowed down the uncomfortably dry lump of food that had stuck in his throat. A part of him knew the action might end up being futile down the road but he really needed that pill inside of him and at least half an hour before it was safe for anything to come shooting back up.

            A silence befell them, tense and dreadful for the captive but apparently indulgent for his suitor.

            “Can I have the pill?” Waylon whispered. He was unsure if and how the depth of his voice would trigger the man around him. Besides he was restrained by shame, disgust, anger, and maybe what still remained in him from that gas, to speak any louder.

            He felt like a dog, forced to bow his head and keep his tail tucked between his legs.

            Gluskin offered him the antibiotic, presented on the gloved platter of his palm. He withdrew when Waylon reached for it, a quick movement that sent the smaller man recoiling.

            “Oh, love, I _know_ you appreciate this and that you’re a little drugged still but…to hear you _say_ it would make me very happy.”

            The technician’s eyes were starting to get heavy again and he could raise his eyes nor head to let the pleading on his face speak for him.

            “Thank you,” he swallowed his pause, “Eddie.”

            The man holding him seemed reinvigorated at that, going tight and strong with his touch. The pill was there again and Waylon took it and popped it between his lips as quickly as he could manage. Gluskin then offered him the water and helpfully kept his hold a constant on the very bottom of the cup with the tips of his fingers so that Waylon wasn’t given a choice in finishing it.

 

 

            He was alone the next time he woke. Or it seemed that way from his prone position. Waylon took a few long breaths for confirmation but he heard no shuffling or foreign breathing.

            However, he did hear the crooning of gentle music from somewhere out of sight. It was a violin and piano duet instead of voices with a melody familiar to him even though he lacked the ability to place it. Had it been playing to assuage him? Of his pain or the situation?

            Waylon was careful in sitting. His leg, it just hurt. His skin was fiery and everything underneath throbbed and protested. But his stomach was no longer demoralizingly empty and that at least kept him from total fatigue. There was also that antibiotic in him so at least he’d manage to stave off incubating an infection for the next ten or so hours. As for the hours after those… the bottle was gone. All the food packages were gone, too. All that remained was the cup refilled with more clean water.

            He eyed it but ended up trying to drown himself with the contents in the face of his dehydration. When he’d gagged his way back to breathing normally he took a second look around.

            The room was small, so it was one of the asylum’s offices. Gluskin had made it seem even smaller by building a giant makeshift bed of four cots inside of it. He’d managed to make them as inviting and comfortable as one could in this place and that was unsettling enough in itself.

            Against the back wall, effectively cutting off entrance to the bed on that side, sat cabinets and a pretty useless desk. It was closet to Waylon and where his water had been placed. Unsurprisingly every drawer he opened contained nothing useful. There were only clothes made of mismatched pieces of fabric sewn together to create a whole.

            Gluskin had been the only patient to dress himself differently or to dress himself at all for that matter. He’d kept himself busy sewing both clothes and human skin.

            Two choices rested in those drawers for him: clothes the groom had made for himself and those he’d made for his bride.

            Waylon knew the feminine outfits would fit him. He probably would’ve chosen them too if they weren’t dresses and skirts. He couldn’t imagine getting far with all of that billowing behind him for easy grabbing.

            It was painful sliding his injured limb into the pant leg, expectedly, and they were far too long besides which forced him to roll the bottoms up several inches. He tucked the shirt into the waist of the pants—no billowing and he’d have a better chance of keeping the waist of the slacks up this way.

            Then he attempted to stand. He failed, of course, and promptly reacquainted his ass to the cots because he’d been in a hurry and had placed too much weight on his wounded leg. He tried to keep silent about it too but he was forced to listen as his voice echoed down the halls in an admission of his efforts. This startled him enough into trying again with his lesson learned. He placed his faith in his good leg and the closest wall.

            The hallway was disgusting; every hallway he’d walked down in this place was disgusting. There was dried blood, dirty footprints, and bits of just about everything but at least this area didn’t inherently smell like a latrine.

            Gluskin had carried him away from where he’d been cornered. Truthfully Waylon had been so panicked and so busy trying to control his breathing on their trek that he hadn’t been as vigilant as he should have.

            He recognized at the very least that they’d turned left to get into this ‘bedroom’ so he began with the right.

            The programmer continued to use the wall as his support and guide as he came to realize the drastic changes in lighting were yet another hindrance now that he’d lost his camera. He knew he’d need it to show the truth of this place. He knew just as much, though, that if he went forward now and found an exit he’d have to leave it behind. It was enough to induce a panic attack because he would never know how well-believed his words would be without other evidence.

            He wanted truth but getting out alive, getting back home, getting back to his wife and boys ranked above it.

            Though he found he didn’t want to think of his family. It was stupid but he was afraid to think of them as if the patients could read minds, as if thinking of them in that place could infect them. Even so they still slipped through his thoughts especially Lisa’s bright smile.

            His hand found an opening, a pathway. He tried to spare a quick glance in case Gluskin was nearby but found himself quickly rooted. It was another hallway splitting between two offices to play the part of a wedding aisle.

            Waylon didn’t want to walk down it; Waylon didn’t want to walk anywhere in this hellhole—but he had to be sure nothing useful was at its end. He had to make sure Gluskin’s hoard of food and pills wasn’t hidden behind the glass windows. Unfortunately he regretted this as after his first few steps the familiar, but still nauseating, smell of putrid, rotting bodies hit him.

            He altered his breathing to his mouth and limped on. None of the chairs held anything of value. They held nothing at all. For a wedding the ‘church’ was certainly barren save for a lone figure standing at the end on a step masquerading as a stage. It was…it was whatever was left of Gluskin’s last fiancé. The veil was pulled over his face and Waylon didn’t pull it back to look at the mutilation that was sure to lie beneath.

            His arms were being held up by ropes, suspended in a mockery of a mannequin. One of the hands was locked in place as if Rigor Mortis had set in while holding something. Even if that had been the case there was nothing there now.

            One of the offices was cluttered and Waylon had to pace and slide himself between yet more cabinets to actually get into the room. He was forced to push another blockade from the exit when his search of this room yielding nothing. The new path led him to more rooms that reflected what he’d already seen of Gluskin’s dwelling.

            Until he found the gymnasium.

            Waylon was sitting before he realized, head craned back to look up at the decorations above him. He didn’t count how many bodies were strung he just wondered at how many different ways there were to die by his hands.

            He went slowly through the zigzag of ropes to a bright vent in the corner. It took longer to hoist himself into it and he was greeted by the body of a former guard for his efforts. Though his head had been forced quite brutally through metal grating Waylon found that he wasn’t startled, which troubled him, but inconvenienced by how painful it was to maneuver around him in the cramped space.

            He ended up falling out of the other end into a small kitchen. He’d at least solved the mystery of his foods’ origin. There was also the resurgence of the instrumental music from before meaning he’d looped back on himself.

            Going back down the hall brought him to yet another lock. This one was on a grated door and the stairs behind it led upward. He’d want to go that way and it didn’t take his degree to know where the key was.

            Waylon bypassed going anywhere near ‘their bedroom’ to find the radio perched on a flimsy table against a stained wall. He turned it off for the benefit of hearing any attackers, or lovers, coming. It seemed, by the locked clicks of the next few doors, that it was to hear his own shitty luck more than anything else.

            There was a door and an adjacent staircase then but the programmer opted for the knob first. It opened to a courtyard, an affective dead end teasing him with dozens of out-of-reach windows. He limped out anyway because, though foolhardy, that first breath of fresher air felt as if it had the possibility of cleansing all the filth from his lungs.

            Unfortunately standing still was cramping his leg so once he was certain he could find nothing in the little outdoor area he continued on. And then he stepped on a file folder: Eddie Gluskin’s file.

            There were things he could glean from it; the patient apparently wanted to please his ‘doctors.’ They nor Waylon could figure what there was to gain from it. There were things that made him disgusted; his pursuer had been a victim of constant sexual abuse in his youth by his own blood. Waylon recalled hearing of studies performed that correlated a high probability of victims becoming abusers. There were things that were common conjecture by now; Gluskin had been killing and mutilating women long before his tenure here.

            Waylon’s stomach churned and it was a little more difficult to breathing deeply against his sudden anxiety. Gluskin wanted to be better than what he’d had growing up but he’d been infected. He’d grown up sick; he’d grown up already too far gone for regular life. And now? It was disturbing the savagery they’d inflicted upon these men: rapists, murderers, and cannibals made worse through their efforts.

            There was a scream, a deep male bellow from one of the upper windows. Gluskin was entertaining another candidate.

            Gluskin had that key. Gluskin had those pills. Waylon had to make a move.

            It was a bit of a hike up those stairs. All these halls and small rooms had become a labyrinth to him long before he’d become injured. He’d no choice but to let groans and whimpers and the sound of stabbing—God, Lisa, that he’d become accustomed to recognize it from afar—guide him.

            Gluskin was indeed stabbing into a body when the technician found him. The man was gone already but his surgeon was still digging and twisting with his blade into the gore-splattered mess between his legs.

            Waylon covered his mouth when he pried his eyes away, startled to meet the gaze of another—and a very much alive—patient. He was strapped nude to another table and though he kept his silence his eyes bore into Waylon’s.

            “I hope you don’t feel like I’ve kept you waiting.” Gluskin drew his guests’ eyes into following him. He wiped off his knife and then held it to the man’s chest. “We’ll start here now that I have what I need to fix you.” Then he cut, deep enough to lift skin from muscle, in a clean crescent shape.

            Understandably the guy screamed.

            “Did I—oh, Lord; I forgot to give you an anesthetic, didn’t I?” A laugh. “”Eddie, you doofus! Would forget my own head if it wasn’t screwed on!”

            His patient began to thrash. “Please--!”

            “Please?” Gluskin’s excited tone was gone and Waylon pressed to the wall because of it. “Isn’t that what you said before? You begged and pleaded with me to change you!” He made the second cut in rapid anger. “You’re the one who came here teasing _me_ \--…”

            “Please, HELP ME!” That was directed beyond Gluskin’s shoulders.

            It felt like time slowed as chillingly blue eyes turned to follow. God, please, he didn’t want to hang with all those other bodies.

            But it was the groom who looked more distressed by his appearance. He dropped the knife beside his work table and then tried to wipe away the blood smears coating his skin.

            “Darling,” he began and then offered up his palms for inspection. “I can explain.”

            Waylon prayed he’d melt into that wall.

            “I swear this isn’t what it looks like. She means nothing to me!”

            His leg, combined with how numb he suddenly felt, worked in tandem to bring him to the floor. Gluskin picked him up as one does a toddler, hands under each armpit, until they were both at their full heights.

            “I swear,” he repeated. “You’re the one I love!”

            Waylon was conscious of his gaping, giving time for his wrists to be encircled once again by strong fingers. He’d had a few waking days of incredible, unbelievable scenarios but he’d had the ability to run away from everything prior to this man.

            The idea of being killed and eaten had been the most terrifying thing he’d had to face—to have someone chasing him with a goddamn saw so full of rage and hunger conjured such an inherent fear in his stomach that he knew he’d never be able to properly explain it.

            As horrific as Gluskin’s motives and actions were Waylon was more unsettled finding himself rendered mute in his awe rather than shaking in terror. Fear was not going to leave him until he was free of this place but here and now it was smothered by the bizarre make-believe world a sick mind had built and the role he was expected to play in it.

            This groom was lost in this world. Did he have no choice but to play along? To wait to be killed by a knife between his legs?

            The wounded patient was gurgling and rolling. Gluskin was still ranting.

            “…She came in here trying to tease me, begging me even after I told her about you! She’s a slut and I was showing her how ugly and useless…”

            Waylon managed to look at the ‘slut’ and with the returned gaze found a plan forming and cemented within seconds. He guided their eyes elsewhere. There was a tray of knives and other instruments nearby, Gluskin’s arsenal for creating brides.

            He suppressed the rising shame regarding his next act.

            His voice shook regardless. “You’re a liar.” Then louder because Gluskin had muttered over him. “You’re a liar!”

            His wrists were brought and held in front of his chest. It was a position he’d seen in old fashioned romances meant to be endearing but in actuality crippling.

            “No, no,” Gluskin denied. “I would never lie to you!”

            Waylon tugged his wrists down to see if his snare would give. It didn’t. “Then prove it.” At this, though, his fiancé let him go. He shuffled a step and gestured to the wounded figure in what he hoped was disdain. “Let her go.”

            “Let her go?”

            The programmer moved to the wall and thusly closer to that tray. The knives weren’t as long as the one lying on the floor but if he could get one or two n Gluskin’s throat it wouldn’t matter.

            “If you love me,” Waylon breathed, “then you’d let her go. I don’t want her here.”

            That expressive face brightened. “Then you forgive me.” He made to surge forward, arms out with intent to embrace but Waylon held up a hand which, thankfully, stopped the affection.

            “After you let her go.”

            Gluskin looked as if he’d been kicked but he turned away dutifully. While he loosened the leg straps Waylon picked one of the knives silently all the while maintaining eye contact with the ‘other woman.’ He gave a nod and then a jabbing motion with his new blade to convey their plan.

            He’d barely received an agreement when Gluskin moved down in one smooth motion to reclaim his discarded knife so that he could bury it in the restrained man’s stomach.

            Waylon choked and his knife clattered away as he backed into the table, knocking the tray askew and sending him reeling to the wall and then the floor. Gluskin stabbed and sliced and sawed. The blood pooled and streamed off the edges. The sound of it pattering against the floor outlasted the sounds of its former owner.

            Gluskin was sucking harshly through is nostrils then and once again attempting to clean his hands. Dissatisfied he moved to a bucket of water in the corner. Waylon remained seated. There was no point in much else; he couldn’t run nor could he fight on his own. All he had left was this act that had no clear finale. He only saw himself ending as another cut-up bride. His only chance was thinking something up before his leg was considered healed.

            “Forgive me.” Gluskin touched his cheeks. “Now she’s gone, don’t be jealous and forgive me. She’ll never make you jealous again.” There were lips on his forehead. “Forgive me.”

            Waylon placed his hands on the arms sliding around him. “I forgive you.”

 

 

            “I have another surprise for you.” Gluskin had quite the affinity for sing-song. He seemed to have an affinity for forgetting the past rather quickly, too. He’d relocated them back to the bedroom where Waylon had huddled to the back corner. “A few, actually.”

            He stepped away only to return too swiftly with both his hands behind his back. Waylon hadn’t looked around the area as well as he could have, apparently.

            He watched warily as his pursuer crossed the mattress on his knees, diminishing the distance between them.

            “Do you want to close your eyes?” Gluskin grinned. “No?” He presented one hand bearing a chocolate bar and more importantly _two_ white pills. Though naïve hope reigned his mind the logical part of his brain recognized the different in these pills from the one he’d already digested.

            “I know what I said but a sweet every now and then won’t hurt and women do love their chocolate! Especially when they’re in pain.” His face remained jovial as he held his hand out even as Waylon let indecisiveness delay his own fingers. He snatched the candy first since it had been explained. When the silence stretched on he opened it and took a big bite.

            He tried to phrase his question correctly: “Did you find me more medicine?”

            It seemed to have been right since that smile didn’t disappear. “Painkillers, Darling. You’ll have to enjoy them while you can because once we’re expecting you can’t take anymore.”

            The programmer winced and then morphed it into a smile of his own. He was allowed to take and swallow the little ovals without any fuss. He broke off another chunk of the bar to make sure they went down. Meanwhile Gluskin’s expression had devolved; there was still a smile but his forehead had creased.

            His impatience wasn’t something to be tested right now, Waylon decided. He had no ground to pick his battles, he knew, but his shoulders sank. He offered a piece of the chocolate. “Thank you, Eddie.”

            Dammit if Gluskin didn’t just light up with elation at the offering. He even ate it straight from the technician’s fingers who did well in not flinching. He didn’t do so well with the adoration in the look he was given directly after.

            He cast his eyes to the arm still tucked away. “You have something else.”

            His groom brought it forward without delay.

            “My camera,” Waylon’s mouth and brain announced.

            “I went and got it for you,” Gluskin told him. “I knew you’d want it back and you’re welcome before you even say it.”

            It wasn’t broken, even after his fall. There was blood caked to it and Waylon didn’t care to question it, not now that he had it back. He trained his eyes to the screen even when those big hands settled over his, caressing and unsettling.

            The camcorder was out of juice.

            “Eddie,” Waylon said around a swallow. “Thank you for getting this but…” He wanted to crawl into a hole even as he pitched his face up and said: “I can’t film you without batteries.” He set the camera aside and did not let his hands jerk when they were grasped. “Could you find me some?”

            He’d really put some effort into his acting so when he received a frown all that chocolate piled at the top of his throat. Shit, was he going to be able to say anything other than gratitude and affirmations? He’d never get out if he was forced into stifled submission.

            But then his betrothed nodded. “Of course, anything you ask but you could do something for me, too.” Waylon tried to keep his cheek in the palm that cupped it. “It’s for you as well. Here, stand up, don’t worry I won’t let you fall. Never, ever again.”

            He was lifted into standing rather than doing it of his own volition. He was made to face Gluskin and then to lift his arms when prompted so that the shirt he’d acquired could be removed. When thumbs brushed the button of his pants there was a laugh.

            “Why did you wear my clothes? Didn’t you see the ones I ‘ve made for you?”

            “I don’t know,” Waylon answered, heart hammering and stomach clenching. He wasn’t sure what this guy’s aim was—sex with a man wasn’t what Gluskin wanted and even if he viewed his bride as female he still had every intention of cutting away everything that denied it. So, what? Was he going to be forced to his knees, to open his mouth?

            It had been a long time, years before he’d met and fallen for Lisa, that he’d been in such a position and it had never been forced. He didn’t think he could get through it. Especially not with how often he seemed to be juggling his vomit and bile back and forth.

            “I see.” The pants dropped down smoothly only causing issue when it came to the trick of freeing his wounded shin. “You wanted me near you, is that it? I’ll never leave you alone again if I can help it, I promise.” Gluskin stood with him. “Turn for me, towards the bed.”

            Waylon doubled over and dug his fingers into the sheets. He’d been wrong—the lunatic was so far gone in his delusion that the programmer’s genitalia didn’t matter. He was going to be raped and he’d have to act like he enjoyed it. That bile mix was back.

            “I would never—I’m being crass again, I’m sorry, but I’m—I know you’ve been saving yourself for marriage, for me, waiting to be fixed and we will. But I know you and I will be happier for now if…”

            Gluskin’s right hand cupped over his penis while the opposite took his testicles. He pulled them both back tightly enough to make Waylon gasp. Then he—the smaller man had no clue where or how he tucked them, how everything felt snug with no real pain.

            “Hold yourself.” His hands were placed for him. “Like this.”

            Gluskin leaned away and then: “Lift your leg… now the other.” A piece of fabric slithered up the awkward smoothness of his legs. Waylon moved his hands when they were swatted at to allow the strange piece to cup him in place with Gluskin’s fingers as added support. Then came the impossible-to-mistake ripping of duct tape.

            His groom fastened everything in place and when he withdrew nothing shifted, nothing moved. Waylon’s manhood had effectively been tucked away, out of sight and out of mind.

            And then Gluskin covered up all the evidence with self-made panties that fit disturbingly well.

            “You’re already so beautiful,” the patient breathed. “You’ll be stunning once your leg’s healed. Here.” He didn’t need Waylon to stand to slide one of the dresses over his torso but he guided them face to face anyway. “Don’t you feel better? Don’t you feel beautiful?”

            “Yes, Eddie. Thank you.”

            “Oh, I didn’t think I could love you more. We’ll be very happy.”

            Somehow enduring Gluskin’s kiss proved to be the worst part of the ordeal; wet and messy even before the probing of a tongue forced between his lips. When he was ushered back to the bed he thought about how unjust it was that his exhaustion made sleep all too easy to find against his captor’s chest.


	3. Part 3 - Eddie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie gets curious as to what is on his beloved's camera.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am putting a warning here! There is sexual abuse and rape in this part so please, if that triggers you know that it starts at about the halfway point. I want to make a point of reminding everyone how delusional Eddie is and that this IS in fact rape no matter how much his mind romanticizes it. Thank you for reading!

            His Darling, his love was asleep again.

            Eddie wondered if he’d given her a little too much of his spray and then compounded its effect with the pain pills. More likely her body wanted the rest to recover quickly but he still resolved that he would not use the spray again until her surgery. She deserved to be spared that pain for the love and forgiveness she had given him.

            Her exhaustion made it easy for him to slip from the bed and redeposit her amidst all the pillows and sheets. She truly looked beautiful in their bed, like an angel encircled by all the white. She belonged there. This bed, this home had been made for _her._

            Adorably through the repositioning her hand remained curled with loose yet graceful fingers over her rescued camera.

            It hadn’t been hard to find which was why her gratitude had been so sweet. All he’d had to do was lower the elevator. He’d even recovered quite a few folders she’d obviously been collecting, including the one she’d dropped when she’d come searching for him not too long ago.

            In that moment he honestly hadn’t been doing anything to compromise their love. No, in fact he’d been protecting it! Those whores had no place intruding upon their home, trying to tease him and above all making his future bride fume with jealousy and doubt!

            Oh, she had been jealous, too. The hurt in her eyes wasn’t something he’d wanted though, if he was being fair, they were now even in the pain they’d caused one another. He would never dare mention that aloud. No, he’d been content and more than happy to rip that woman apart and show his beloved her lies and her worthlessness.

            After it all his Darling had forgiven him, had been forgiven before he’d even redeemed his actions by eliminating the other ‘competition.’ It was why he’d been willing to retrieve her items and why he hadn’t read any of the documents even if the notebook looked suspiciously like a diary.

            He’d wanted to read it for what she might have to say about him but he restrained himself; she’d barely had time to wake let alone write. Besides there would be no secrets between them, he was certain. He’d ask anything he wanted and she’d answer.

            Still, he did take her camera from her. Her private words were one thing but video of her journey to him was information he was justified in viewing. Based on her appearance at their first meeting she’d traveled long and through hardships to get to him. She’d want him to see.

            There were batteries—he’d collected them when he’d first decided on their home. He’d found quite the hoard, too. He kept them in one of the smaller rooms, a room he had every intention of converting into his own study while they awaited the birth of their child. Every good father had a study, after all.

            Once he’d removed the batteries, and a few extra to humor his lover, he locked the door and tested it with a firm push before pocketing his ring of collected keys. He was careful with the camera when attempting to replace the old with the new as they’d need it to record their ceremony.

            When he was certain he’d fixed it he let the machine rewind so that he could watch his lover’s travels from their start.

            It surprised and stressed Eddie that that start depicted his fiancé manhandled and thrown into a chair by two careless doctors. To know that she had suffered the way he had suffered, to know she had been manipulated by hands that had done the same to him! They even strapped her head back so she couldn’t move; her head!

            The footage had given a quick glimpse of one of the doctors’ faces. He was not one with which Eddie had ever worked personally in sessions that his memory recalled. His face _was_ familiar, though, so the pain his lover underwent may have been something he himself had once witnessed.

            Still, he winced when the doctor’s arm hefted back so that his hand could connect with his lover’s cheekbone. He was appalled but curious as her face was discolored in more than one place. Who else had had their hands on his Darling?

            He couldn’t quite make out what followed, just a muffled, “Here, let me help,” before the man moved in close.

            Eddie felt jealous but more so angry. His betrothed was so delicate and vulnerable so he couldn’t blame anyone for their attraction. However, striking her when she’d already been restrained, groggy, and silent was excessive especially when she’d been a good girl and hadn’t fought.

            Why hadn’t she fought? His chest hurt at the thought because she couldn’t have wanted that attention.

            During his internal musings the doctors had left his fiancé alone in the video, alone to begin her struggle. Oh, what a smart wife he’d have. Of course it wouldn’t do to waste her energy fighting when she’d only be apprehended. Eddie really wished he could kick himself sometimes! He could be such a loon.

            He remembered the sirens and flashing lights that blared from the little screen. As his love gained her freedom and his view of her changed to mirror what she herself was seeing he knew this moment as one of his own freedom. His own awakening.

            The hectic antics of all the ugly psychopaths around him had secured his escape from any doctors that had been detaining him with their procedures. He could barely remember before the opening of his eyes, before the clarity of reality after a dream. There had been pain, lies, intrusions before his dream, he believed. There had been fear and anger in him to be prodded by hands claiming sanctuary and healing but only resurfacing and mimicking the worst of his childhood.

            He’d thought them liars but then, waking, he’d felt happy. He’d felt jovial, even! And now, to be in love! So it had been obvious, and it continued to be so, that their tactics performed on him had worked.

            The feelings within him could finally be safely shared. He could finally move on and create what he’d always wanted.

            So he’d begun with his home. There had been women waiting for him in the area he’d chosen. They’d skittered away from him and had even fought him when given the chance. He’d tried to show them what they could be as wives, as mothers, as a family. None had worked out. Funny, he couldn’t recall their faces nor their current locations. He only knew that they’d had an ample impact upon the décor of his halls.

            They may not have been suitable for love but they’d done enough to prepare Eddie for the only woman who mattered, the one for whom all his learned knowledge and hard work would benefit. Everything he’d experienced had been meant for her and he’d repeat that to himself again and again and forever.

            With this video he could see if her own lessons were to prepare her for him.

            On the screen a crazy man was opening the door for his love. He was also muttering vulgar things to the ‘pretty flower’ he’d released if Eddie’s ears were correct. The animal didn’t get a chance to act on his disgusting advances because his girl ran.

            Smart and agile she spared only the briefest of moments of observation on the murder, on the rapes, on the mutilation, and even on the offerings for her to join in the mayhem before fleeing. No, no, she had a goal, a purpose and a beating, loving heart to guide her.

            Obstacles continued to deter her, idiots gave chase and the poor thing was forced through vents—vents for goodness sake! Like a rat!—to escape. Yet still she proved she could be benevolent. At a crossroads and begged by a doctor for help she complied although his words were laced with falsehoods. The naïve, innocent thing…he felt pity for her when she had to turn from his morbid death.

            Eddie took a moment from the video to check in on her, finding her still deep in slumber. It was good that she could still rest her eyes after what she’d seen. He retreated further into the hallway so that she might have a few more moments.

            It seemed for the best as the screen displayed her crossing through a cafeteria. Her gait was careful and her breath restrained making it easier for him to hear the grumblings of a man but not the shape of the words. It seemed she’d accomplished her goal of remaining undetected only for the interruption of breaking glass and shooting blood coating the screen. Eddie tilted his head.

            The camcorder was cleaned immediately to reveal a haggard man with a wiry beard, manic eyes, and a ghastly scar across his chest. Like the doctor from earlier there was a semblance of familiarity about him.

            He held out a handsaw. “Don’t you look at us! I love him!” It was disgusting, to claim to love another man and then to desecrate that statement by devouring a heart whole. “Look how you bleed for me. Wet. Ready. Red. Wanting.”

            Eddie was grateful for his cure but he knew now he could _never_ have had a place among these lunatics who uttered such obscenities in front of and to another man’s woman.

            The scene jumped to his love recording a figure in greens and blacks giving chase. The revving of a saw revealed the hunter’s identity. To hear his claim on Eddie’s woman, to know that claim meant he’d rather cut her open not to fix her but to eat her! It compelled him to check in on his Darling again.

            Unfortunately her past escape from this cannibal hadn’t been the end of his hunt and a loud roar from the recording’s depiction of his saw sent her once-resting form into hysterics. Eddie let the camera play on in his haste to embrace her.

            “Darling!”

            She got an elbow into his ribs before he could subdue her. “Darling, I’m here.”

            The poor girl looked at him as if she didn’t recognize her own lover!

            “It’s me; you’re safe.” He scooped up her camcorder. “I wanted to see and, my love, you’re going to shake yourself to pieces.” Eddie took in the smell of her hair waiting for her to go lax in his embrace. “He’ll never find you. But he did try, didn’t he?”

            His chest inflated again with delightfully unanticipated but always welcome euphoria. He was so proud of her, so fond of her, so in love.

            The screen resting against the rapid increase and decrease play of breath within her back portrayed his recorded beloved tuck herself into a locker. To his amusement this actually worked to trick her pursuer long enough for an escape.

            “So, _that’s_ why you did it,” Eddie laughed despite the matter. “I knew you were frightened and to know that it wasn’t really my fault…”

            She inhaled and then took the camera. It whirred and he leant forward to see images speeding and blurring. He stopped her finger gently to let it play.

            “Darling, you don’t have to hide it from me.”

            She took a moment and it seemed even her little movie went quiet for her voice. “I don’t want you to get… upset.”

            He was going to disagree with all his heart when a man’s voice filtered from the little speakers. “Yeah, come to daddy…” Another lunatic but this one was touching himself. In front of a lady. Eddie’s lady.

            His lady who had kept the camera on him for longer than she should have. Questions surged through his mind and warred at the back of his tongue to be spoken. It mirrored the war of emotions in his heart: his faith in her against the pain of this betrayal.

            But he’d be kind. He had to be. He had to give her a chance.

            “You watched him.”

            “He was over dead bodies--!” The outburst drew Eddie’s arms back to himself and then led him to stand. He wanted to be above her, to scrutinize any excuse she might make.

            What excuse could she make? She’d explicitly said she hadn’t wanted him upset so she would have hid this from him if she could. She would have _lied_ if he hadn’t caught her. He had no idea if she had encouraged that man’s behavior, if her presence had led his hand.

            Eddie threw the extra batteries from his pocket at the wall hard enough to dent so he could silence her babbling. He took advantage of her shock to wrench her arm toward him which forced her body to follow.

            He screamed over her anguished yelp. “You’re supposed to love me! This--! You act like all the others—!” Her eyes were on her free hand, on her non-dominant hand as it fumbled with the camera. “Acting the virgin! You want to betray me, too?!”

            “No!” She squeaked as he pulled her limb, angling her body to now curl behind it. “No. Please, look. Look!” She held up the camcorder. “I was scared, see?! I ran! Please, I ran!”

            Eddie threw her arm down. Admirably she didn’t cry or cradle herself; she attacked the machine again and then held it up as an offering. “I did this to find you!”

            He seized it from her perhaps more forcefully than he should have and turned his back on her to watch. He witnessed a long jump barely made—and then not made as everything shook and cracked and thudded. He recognized the new area into which she had fallen so he placed the camera onto the desk beside him. He took his time to turn it off.

            It explained her body. He had been so focused on her leg but now he thought back to how he had noticed all these dark bruises peppered over her and hadn’t set about healing them. They were evidence of her trials for him and therefore her exoneration.

            He rejoined her on the bed and gathered up her fingers to kiss them. “How can I blame you for your beauty?” She wasn’t a tease, not like the others. No, her naivety, her virginity had made her pause. She wouldn’t lie. Rapists and animals had been chasing her and he’d almost—… “You love only me, I know. That was all for me, wasn’t it?”

            “Yes.”

            He spread himself around her, legs a wall and arms a brace of support. Then he rewarded her with a kiss and he tried to put all his admiration and forgiveness into it. She was stiff against him, opening her lips to allow him without matching his affection. She was unsure if he was still angry, Eddie supposed.

            He put her hands on his cheeks for reassurance. She grimaced at that and he had to keep her touch there for she tried to withdraw. His brow lowered.

            “Doesn’t it hurt?” She asked quickly.

            Eddie hadn’t thought about the scabbing on his face. Well, outside of shaving he hadn’t. When he’d first woken up he’d experienced discomfort and shredding pain when a smile drew too tight. He hadn’t felt any of that with her as a distraction, not even now with the weight of her fingers against them.

            “Not with you,” he answered honestly. She averted her eyes and blushed. She blushed so much redder than any he’d ever seen. It was so wonderful to see the love blooming clear and obvious on her skin. He’d tell her all the truths and beauties and promises she’d want so long as he could always see her flush, a confirmation to the ownership he had over her heart.

            A thumb moved of its own accord to what remained of his right eyebrow. “I’m sorry.”

            “Why? Is it your fault?” He was teasing her but this marred her face with thoughtful lines that would lessen her beauty if she continued to ponder too hard. “Kiss it better.”

            This slackened her face and diverted her hands to the bed. He didn’t urge her again, though, he just turned the right side of his face to her and waited.

            Her mouth was soft and scared, unsure of its pressure or the length of time it should spend on any single spot. But oh, his heart bellowed and no, of course it didn’t hurt. It finally didn’t hurt.

            The kiss of your true love could never hurt.

            He curled his hand around the base of her skull to keep her attentions and then to refocus them to his chin. His intent was direct enough that she moved onto his lips without any force. It was chaste and sweet as she. Eddie knew it would remain that way under her lead. As it should be, as he wanted her to be: soft, gentle patience fueled by a desire to please him.

            It was expected of him and therefore right to dip her head back and search her mouth. She still tasted of chocolate and felt of slickness and warmth. It felt good; it felt wonderful as he’d always been told it might.

            He wanted to continue to feel it—to make her feel it! Yes, making her feel as good would enhance their experience. Making her feel good was his duty.

            He turned her head to kiss her cheek as he had been. She was stiff once more perhaps made nervous by touches she’d never felt, he was sure. He was careful to touch her waist tenderly, to ease along her back, and to trace along the curve of her up and down. Her curves were subtle because of all that running he guessed. A little more food and rest and her hips would swell.

            Even so she was still so close to physical perfection in a way none of the lumpy women before could have managed, not even after surgery.

            He swept his fingers up to cup her breasts. They were small and firm but very pretty. He’d make them larger if only to fit her dress all the better. For now he was thrilled they responded to his touch.

            This surprised his beloved into covering herself.

            “It doesn’t hurt,” he told her. He’d been pleasing her, he knew because he’d felt it.

            “No,” she said, “but don’t you want to wait until our wedding night?”

            Eddie beamed. “Oh, Darling, we’ll have to!” Silly girl, did she think he’d forgotten? Had she forgotten? She must have been very flustered, truly lost in him as he in her to have forgotten.

            “Right.” She seemed to remember then. “But I don’t want… you to think I’m a whore.”

            “No, you love only _me_. You aren’t a whore when you’re loving me.” He kissed her and lowered her to interrupt anymore nonsense she could spout. Truthfully her nerves were beginning to get on his!

            After that video, after her please and promises how could she turn him away?

            “Don’t you love me?” He asked aloud. “I promise you’re not a whore.” She wouldn’t lift her arms when he tried to remove her dress so he had to force them up. She even shrank away when he touched her belly and slid up to her breasts, now bare but pink by the extension of the blush coating her face.

            Eddie kissed one of her nipples and then, elated, sucked it between his teeth. Her back curved and he supported her while he licked at the nub until she removed it from his mouth. She rolled in his arms to lie on her stomach so she could hide her face in her forearms.

            Her lover allowed it if only for the access it gave to the back of her neck. He sniffed there; mouthed and scraped at the skin with his teeth. He touched what he could of her in their position before finally wedging his hand under her pelvis.

            Her panties were smooth under his palm. She had her thighs clenched together but they shook in protest to the restriction she placed upon herself. He knew because she gasped when he wiggled two of his fingers to feel her. She was warm and soon, soon he wouldn’t have to feel her through so many layers. Soon she’d be able to welcome him and his seed.

            She panted beneath him. “Eddie, I can’t do anything for you yet, please. You’re hurting my leg.”

            Ruse or not he didn’t want to risk prolonging their union so he pulled his weight from atop her but he would not let her out from the box of his arms and knees.

            “Darling, there _is_ something you can do for me.” He didn’t hesitate in placing her hand upon his erection. It wasn’t vulgar because of their love and she seemed to understand this because she did not move away. So he drew his penis out and wrapped her fingers around it. She dipped her chin so their eyes wouldn’t meet.

            “You’ve never done this, I know.” He guided her touch tight and loose, up and down, fast and slow. He let go only so that he could support himself above her freeing him to press his face into her hair. He didn’t need to tell her to continue.

            She was breathing raggedly, giving away her excitement. She was a minx as he had called after her at their earliest moments. _His_ minx.

            He pulled from her and clambered up the bed. She watched his movements, obviously confused. Her pretty eyes widened when he rested a knee on either side of her head and they shared this upside-down share for a few deep breaths.

            Eddie put his hand around her throat and with his other guided his penis to her face. “You’re not a whore but don’t be a tease.” He squeezed her neck a little just to feel how soft she was, just to feel her heartbeat, her little swallows.

            When she opened her mouth he took his time. Hunched over her he felt compelled to circle the head at her lips, to dip inside and withdraw, again and again. Slipping in deeper touched him to her tongue. It was a wet slide that he rocked into very delicately. Around him she swallowed involuntarily and just as involuntarily he pressed in and in. His hips jerked at one such swallow and he recoiled as his fiancé coughed and gagged.

            There were water lines extending back into her hair above her ears but she relaxed her jaw like a good girl. She wanted to please him now so he obliged by sinking in again. This time she swallowed around him and shifted her breathing to her nostrils.

            He released her neck so that he could lean above her nudity. He could freely touch her now—her nipples, the shape of her ribcage to her belly, the lines of what would be her womanhood to her thighs. This was where he rested his head, balancing his weight on his arms so that he could smell her there.

            Her entire body jerked when he kissed her there and though he didn’t retreat from her mouth he paused his movements at an unexpected discomfort. “Mind your teeth, Darling.”

            She continued to twitch as he licked and bit the soft cushions of her inner thighs. She’d be so welcoming and open for him there when they were married, as open as her mouth was now. Oh, how he wanted to press in and out, to thrust but he knew he could hurt her. He couldn’t hurt her, not _this_ way. He’d love her slow, as he loved her now, as she loved him now. They would savor being within one another. They’d savor their pleasure, savor their union and their trust, and they’d savor that in this way they would never bring pain to one another.

            He sucked her skin into his mouth as he slid deep and deep, letting her breathe and then repeating. He swiped his tongue and bit and kissed to leave her love marks, to display how good she had been to him. He dropped his cheek to the pillow of her thigh as he sank into her warmth. There was a startling tightness to everything then. His back contracted and he sat up to watch his penis lost between her lips. It was a rapid movement to snatch her hand as he pulled out of her mouth. Together they stroked the remainder of his seed from him, streaking and smearing her closed, swollen lips that hid away all that he’d already given her.

            He put his hand on her throat once more. “Swallow.”

            She did and Eddie swiped the liquid from her mouth so he could kiss her. Overcome with affection—and to know he would feel this for the rest of his life was to be blessed—he began pecking her cheek and chin and neck and where he could reach as he cocooned around her. He sucked a red circle onto her shoulder and then kissed at her ear.

            “I love you.” He entwined their fingers. “Tell me you love me.”

            Her voice was heavy and somehow both hoarse and wet. “I love you.”


	4. Part 4 - Waylon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waylon reels from his molestation and tries to fend off more. Eddie takes the first steps in preparing a wedding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there are any suggestions/scenes you'd like to see from the next part, which will be Eddie's POV, please message me on tumblr (Grimmy88), deviantart (Grimmons88), or through email (Grimmons88@hotmail.com). Thanks!
> 
> For this part onlysnakescanlove asked for some bath times ^_^

            Gluskin was nestled, perfectly happy and content, around him. He had molded their bodies together so that he could cradle the left side of his head in the curve of the technician’s neck and shoulder. There he alternated between murmurs and hums that were too close to the skin for discernibility.

            He did this and Waylon let him because moving would be taken as an offense. Besides at this point he didn’t know if his body would allow it. That bit of cliché, even if fleeting through his thoughts angered him as it reminded him that he was rendered even more immobile by his own shame.

            He doesn’t think anybody envisions it happening to them and if they do they’re the protagonist in some grand character-building story. They don’t open their mouth and allow it; they fight. Even the darkest stories have a victim fighting against the trauma and in some way they fortify themselves either physically or mentally.

            Waylon only felt petrified by his. He was no hero; he’d never claimed to be. But to find out you’re a coward?

            His mind churning in turmoil seemed to trigger the same in his gut and he had to clamp down on the gag desperately clawing for control over his throat. Vomiting would be another offense. It would get him killed.

            Being a coward with your rapist’s cum in you was better than his knife. He’d do it again if it meant a chance at anything at all, even five extra minutes of life.

            Waylon mentally convinced himself of this but that didn’t necessitate that his body listen. His stomach rolled fiercer than he’d ever experienced and he had to slap his hand over his mouth in swallowing the bile and regurgitated semen back down.

            Gluskin gripped him all the tighter at the convulsion.

            “Darling, what is it?” The concern in that voice made it worse.

            Waylon had to take a few breaths, letting the question linger while he struggled for the correct response in the sweetest tone he could muster. “Eddie,” he used his name when he could because it was clear it pleased him. “Can you take me to the bathroom?”

            The lunatic wasn’t going to let him go on his own but appealing to his obvious desire to be needed was the safest chance of getting Waylon what he wanted.

            “Can’t it wait?” Gluskin aligned them so that his chest was more firmly pressed to the programmer’s back. Something hard dug into his shoulder blade. Jagged and thick, Waylon knew that the key he’d need was there along with what felt like several others which explained the dead ends he’d continuously encountered.

            “I’m sorry,” the smaller man offered. “It can’t.”

            Still Gluskin held him for a few beats longer. Then he swung himself to the edge of the bed and held out his hands. “I’ll carry you.”

            Waylon hurriedly put his hands on Gluskin’s palms to prevent it. “I…should try on my own and see how my leg is.”

            “Yes, yes, you’re right.” The patient was more than happy to keep a steadying arm around his shoulders without relinquishing the hold of his other hand. He even paced himself so that his long legs wouldn’t worsen Waylon’s limp.

            He might have made a mistake considering he now had no choice but to grip onto that hand and trust his guide. Being carried could have at least been a form of rebellion in the way it would’ve hindered Gluskin.

            “I’ll go in with you,” was the next offer.

            “No,” Waylon protested a little too quickly, quick enough to straighten Gluskin’s posture and blank his face. The technician swallowed another bout of nausea and balanced himself when he was released. This lunatic’s posture was tightening, exemplified by the simple task of lifting his arms from his sides. His forearms flexed with an intimidating readjustment of his gloves. It did the job of frightening the programmer into pressing his palms to the mismatched vest in deference.

            “I don’t want you to see,” he attempted. “I’m embarrassed.” He didn’t like the way those eerie eyes searched him so he focused on his own hands. The tip of his ring finger was touching the metal hidden underneath the fabric there.

            Gluskin busied his own hands by running them over his beloved’s scalp, nails scraping all the way. “I’ll see much worse, Darling.”

            “I know,” though Waylon refused to let it manifest in his head.

            The touch dropped away and a sigh ruffled his hair in its stead. “Oh, fine, but I’ll be right here waiting.”

            “I know.”

            He stumbled to the first clean-enough toilet he found and let out everything once the door shut. Vomiting may not have been a quiet action but Waylon was putting as much effort into muffling the exodus of his stomach as he had with his other near death experiences in this place. It tasted vile, worse than the time he’d had fish mixed with too much liquor and too little sense. To keep what sanity he had crouched over a dirty bowl in an asylum he blamed it on his bile and not the semen.

            He dry heaved for the majority of his time in the stall. His body had dissolved what food he’d eaten faster than he’d expected and he knew that was for the best because of his need for the energy it would give him. Still another taste to override the one currently stuck at the back of his teeth would’ve been preferable.

            The stall provided the support he needed in standing and with that help he took on the task of trying to understand the arrangement beneath his new underwear. Getting that down his thighs was easy enough save for the glaring red marks it revealed. So much of his skin was raised and angry, stained by digging teeth and sucking lips. He’d have to endure the continuous feel of them but he could try to keep the visual reminder hidden until he needed to piss again.

            The duct tape was trickier and honestly, where had Gluskin even gotten it?

            Being grateful for anything seemed a betrayal to his own interests but that he’d gotten something, whatever it was, put between that tape and his genitals was the biggest relief Waylon had yet to receive.

            He was painfully careful with the tape’s removal so that he could replace it. In the same mindset, one of worry over whether Gluskin would check, he only drew out his penis to urinate and then, with his head bowed, tucked himself back in.

            Turning the faucet at the sink produced no water. Waylon shouldn’t have been surprised but h was suddenly so infuriated at being denied the chance to wash his face that he slapped his palm to the mirror. This lifted his gaze up—he looked weak with his red eyes stark and outlined by the purple of exhaustion, swollen lips, and bruises almost everywhere—so he slapped it again. He slapped it for the taste on his tongue and the state of his face and body. He slapped it because he was too fearful to punch it and hurt himself worse.

            He stopped only because Gluskin’s ears had picked up the sound.

            The psycho was so tall and big behind him. His form filled what remained open of the reflection and then some. Waylon dropped his hands to the sink to keep himself upright even though his body felt as if it were deflating regardless.

            “Darling?”

            “The water.” Even his voice had deflated.

            “What?” Wide hands curled over his shoulders.

            “The water doesn’t work… I wanted to clean up.”

            The fingers continued to curl uncomfortably into his skin. “You want to wash me off you?”

            Waylon wanted to answer that question truthfully. He wanted to strike back with an elbow. He wanted to do _anything_ but what he had to. His head sunk lower. “I thought you’d want me to.”

            “No, not yet. Can you stay like this a little longer?”

            His empty stomach lurched. “At least my hands?”

            “It only works in the kitchen,” Gluskin explained. He drew Waylon from the sink and once against humored him by supporting his weight as they walked. “You should rest and I’ll get us some. We need to clean that leg.”

            Of course he was considerate helping him to the bed and far too fast in gathering the water and supplies for Waylon’s leg.

            “Are you in pain again? I have more pills for you; I wouldn’t want you to hurt.”

            The programmer was. It was a beating awareness that he didn’t want to acknowledge. More pills meant vulnerability because of their promised drowsiness. “I’m okay for now.”

            Gluskin didn’t question it. He cradled the wounded calf, switching between hands as he unraveled the stained gauze. Waylon had to watch, it was less painful without surprises and without waiting blindly for a murderers’ touch.

            His bare leg was propped on one of their superfluous pillows and the patient stared for a moment before prodding the deformed skin. Waylon did not let himself pull away because he knew a strong hand would still him and hold him for the remainder of the cleaning. He’d rather have two hands being gentle than one just trying to get the job done. So he resigned himself to statuesque stillness.

            His ‘fiancé’ had gathered a few rags that looked clean enough. He took the lightest one and pressed it to the wound with the added pressure of his hand. Waylon’s face gave a spasm which manifested into a grimace that only left once he was released. The rag came back yellow and pink. Gluskin folded it and used the clean half to repeat the procedure, then again with one of the others until he was seemingly satisfied.

            “Not too much pus; that’s a good thing.”

            It had seemed like a lot to Waylon!

            His ‘betrothed’ reached back for the bucket and a container of soap he must’ve grabbed while gone. Most likely it was from some janitor’s closet. He used a small amount on the remaining wet cloth and turned the glob into spreading suds. At this point he was careful in circling it over and around the sewn wound.

            Gluskin’s forehead wrinkled and half his bottom lip disappeared into his mouth and these served as indicators to his concentration. He was no longer applying pressure but desperately trying to avoid any unnecessary weight. His fingers were somehow light and almost imperceptible despite their girth.

            He rinsed and dried the area in very much the same way.

            When he’d finished circling new gauze around the wound he traced his thumb over a vein in Waylon’s foot and smiled into the stare he received for it. Not wanting to encourage the misconceptions arising from this mistake the captive turned his face away.

            “Give me your hands; I’ll wash them and then your feet.” He didn’t wait for them to be offered but Gluskin bathed his palms and fingers as delicately yet diligently as he had his leg. He did the same with Waylon’s feet. He didn’t think they’d ever been cleaned so thoroughly in his adult life. It was bizarre to see a man who could presumably lift him with one hand to his throat fretting over the dirt and blood caked on the soles of his feet and wedged between his toes.

            The attentive behavior contrasted dramatically with the restrictions on Waylon’s speech and actions. That this guy thought this was how relationships worked reflected back to his file and the women mentioned therein. He didn’t know how to act or they rejected him and he responded by spilling their blood? He’d belonged here even if he hadn’t mutilated them.

            His feet were dry and Gluskin surprised and unsettled him by massaging a firm thumb into the mounds under his toes. He spent some time there and Waylon mentally scolded himself for his silent acceptance of how good it felt.

            Knuckles kneaded along his arch and then into his heel.

            “I’m sure I’ll be doing this often when we’re expecting,” the psycho chuckled. He glanced up, almost tentatively, and then he sighed. “Are you still embarrassed?” The rubbing progressed to his calf. “I told you you’re not a whore. That was for us and you were so good.”

            Waylon let his head fall aside at the comment and at the way the knots in his muscles were being worked.

            “Does that feel good? Your legs have such a pretty shape to them.” A pause. “Look at me.”

            The technician did.

            “Does this feel good?”

            “Yes. Thank you.”

            “I want to make you feel good, too.”

            The touches moved up beyond his knee to his thigh. It sent throbs through the ‘love’ bites hidden there. Both gloved palms were circling on both the inner and outer part of his thigh. This was a teasing touch not meant to relieve his muscles. The one occupying the inside slipped just under his panties and swept two fingers back and forth on the sensitive skin. The other went to the curve that connection ass cheek to thigh and squeezed.

            It actually made Waylon jerk and yank it away. Both men’s movements froze: his self-preservation and this groom’s exploration. His ice eyes blew wide in shock and confusion and then dawning anger drew his brow down over them. The smaller man felt his shivering start in the middle of his back and work outward.

            Gluskin’s gaze dragged from his held wrist to his woman’s face. Unable to look away Waylon tightened his grip and pulled. The patient cast his own look to the extension of his arm and then back but he followed the pull until he was hunched and supporting himself above his ‘lover.’

            Slowly that grin came. “Hello, Darling.”

            “Hi,” Waylon managed. Though he faced a smile there was expectation in the bright eyes so he arched his neck to initiate the unavoidable kiss. Gluskin cupped his skull, apparently something he enjoyed, and deepened it. It felt a little less obscene this time although he had to engage in it with his tongue.

            His partner was the one to draw back so he could laugh in their shared space.

            “You’re a funny girl,” Gluskin whispered. “Do you want me to keep rubbing?”

            Waylon placed his hands on the larger man’s triceps imploringly. “…Can you finish washing me?” He tried a laugh and it seemed to pass because that smile continued to hover. “I don’t want to smell.”

            “You smell like me.”

            Anything clever or manipulative stuck in his throat. His mind worked fervently to give him a supply but Gluskin’s laugh cut it off.

            “You’re making fun of me,” he realized. He hadn’t thought that possible and truthfully everything he learned about this man made this all the more frightening. The dangerous and often wild juxtaposition of his thoughts and behaviors were hard enough to track when they were only obsession and madness, only the groom or the killer. Nowhere was a lover or a flirt.

            Waylon would have to use it as another tactic in his arsenal. Even so his skin prickled numb. He moved to frame the happy face. “Then we both need to be washed.”

            Gluskin chuckled again and then turned into one of the hands on him to kiss it. He shuffled back until he could stand and retrieve the bucket which he placed on the desk nearest the door. Then he hefted his ‘beloved’ into his arms. “Grab the water.”

            Waylon did and, he assumed this would always be the norm, considered slinging it at the low-cut before deciding against it. He let himself be carried beyond the bathroom.

            “Not in there?”

            “No, no. The kitchen, remember? Then I’ll take you to get a new dress.” The grip on his body readjusted. “I’ve made you a few.”

            The bucket wobbled in his grip and got his fingers wet. “I know. I saw them…some of them when I was running.” He watched the blemished face at that and received the slightest of squints. He gave it the smile he could. “It’ll be a funny story t-to tell--…” His throat closed around the lie.

            Gluskin carried it out, “To tell our children. We’ll leave out the part where you get hurt. That would give them nightmares. They won’t have nightmares.”

            “Every kid as nightmares,” Waylon said. There had been many nights he’d given up his own sleeping space to wake with at least one son’s feet in his face as thanks for his sacrifice. He put the bucket down on the nearest surface and reached out to make his deposit onto a stool easier on them both.

            “Not mine.” Gluskin turned away to rummage through a drawer.

            He knew he shouldn’t push but he weighed the pros of getting his captor to talk. It was akin to diving for pearls in shark infested waters. These pearls would represent a sense of trust and a sense of caring between them. “How are you going to stop it?”

            “Our children will have nothing to be afraid of,” Gluskin explained. “Children have nightmares because they’re afraid but I’ll keep them safe and happy. Nothing will happen to them.”

            He brought the bucket to the floor and began to squirt the contents of a bottle into it, a different replacement of hand soap apparently. He used the rag to mix the two until it bubbled.

            “Did you have nightmares?”

            “Not anymore.”

            A dead end there. “What could happen to them?” He lifted his arms for the removal of his dress. The soaped rag rubbed over his good leg, cleaning away blood and dirt in sweeping circles. A patch of that clean skin was given a kiss.

            “You’re really so innocent, aren’t you? No, don’t be offended! That’s a good thing. A pure mother for pure children.”

            Waylon again thought back to the file folder for an explanation for that answer. He couldn’t bring himself to outright ask of its contents, however. According to those words Gluskin denied the horrors had ever happened to him and whether that was his way of coping or the experimentation might always remain unclear. Regardless, striking that nerve would get him killed so he let it rebury itself.

            “I have nightmares,” he said instead.

            “You won’t now that you’re here with me.”

            Waylon desperately played his scoff into a laugh and shied away from the smile he got for it. “That’ll be nice.”

            “Everything will be. I promise.” Gluskin washed up to his hips but moved over everything already covered to get to his stomach. He turned the bathing here into tender rubbing as well and when he moved up Waylon lifted his arms gingerly to let him finish.

            “Lean over the sink and I’ll wash your hair.”

            The programmer gripped the edge and waited until the last possible moment before presenting his head to the spray. The water was cold and he could feel the chill burrow down his neck to get to his spine. Thick fingers weaved the soap through his hair. It was thorough and by the time of rinsing the temperature had risen to a more tolerable level.

            Upon sitting up a dry rag, hopefully clean, was spread and ruffled over his head. “Did they cut your hair, too?”

            “Yes,” Waylon lied.

            “I don’t mind; it’s a pretty color and it will grow back.”

            Ignoring the bristling in his back the technician reached for his dress. He didn’t want to put it back on but he’d do it to redirect the blue stare from his chest. Unfortunately Gluskin stopped him.

            “No, that’s dirty. Let’s go look at the clean ones.” He moved to cradle Waylon again who sincerely doubted there was any piece of clothing in this place without blood caked on it in some way.

            The smaller man curled his arms around his chest and cringed at the feel of the killer’s gore-crusted cloth against his skin. “What about you?”

            “You want to give me a bath?”

            Waylon could think of nothing he wanted less so he was relieved when his ‘fiancé’ continued. “Maybe later.”

            They retreaded ground he’d tried to cover in his escape until they came to the room Gluskin seemed to use as his studio. There were several sewing machines, mixed and ripped swatches of fabric lying about, blood—always blood—and mannequins that he didn’t want to look at because of the severed heads speared atop them. The glance he had taken confirmed that there were dresses on quite a few of them.

            He kept his arms to himself and watched his big toe specifically when he was placed on one of the sewing tables. Gluskin strode across the room and with a soft click music filled the space.

            The piece possessed the qualities of a forties song, soft and lilting with a confident horn. It sounded like it should have been playing in a smoky club or on a record player rather than the little radio the patient had.

            “It’s a good station,” he was told. “Plays all the best music and the newest ones are only from the sixties, I promise.” So _real_ oldies then and this was confirmed when a new song, one he recognized, began to play.

            Of course it would be Frankie Valli. Of course it would be a song Lisa adored, one he’d jokingly sang to her many times. But what man hadn’t sung that song to their significant other at one time or another?

            “We can pick one of these to be our song.” Gluskin’s voice was closer but not immediate so Waylon looked to where he was inspecting his own creations.

            “Not this one.”

            “You don’t like it?” His voice sounded absolutely _offended_ and he’d even spared a look over his shoulder at the naked man.

            “…It’s just that a lot of people use this song.” He nodded and Gluskin began to nod with him. “It wouldn’t mean as much.”

            “You’re right. Too many people have wasted that song.” He had his hand cupping his chin as he regarded the dresses. Occasionally he would glance in Waylon’s direction. Most of this was aimed at his legs in consideration for the pieces with shorter skirts.

            The song passed this way and the captive hoped he’d never hear it again. He hoped he’d never hear any of these songs again. The next sounded typical of old crooner songs with several voices balancing a matching note in the backdrop.

            Gluskin laughed. “This is a good song for us.”

            “How--?” A woman’s voice, proving his earlier analysis wrong, gorgeous and strong cut his question off. _Today I met the boy I’m gonna marry_ , she claimed. Waylon curled in on himself involuntarily and watched as a grin broke open Gluskin’s mouth. Every line that followed the first only inflated the nausea he felt because he knew the man staring at him was not only applying it to their ‘relationship’ but also reaffirming his own delusion. It bellowed out the assuredness of love at first sight agonizingly slowly even for a short oldies song.

            Gluskin practically glided to him with his chosen garment—one that did show his legs and arms. The chill that had settled within him was to remain. He was halfway into it when their music changed again. Waylon didn’t know it but his new stylist looked as if he’d been struck by Cupid’s goddamn arrow.

            He stepped back with a hand on his chest. “This one.”

            It was another crooner, assuredly a man this time and older than the others. It sounded generic save for the mention of a grin which sent his mind reeling to his first recoil at Gluskin’s appearance through that door. “I don’t know it.”

            “’Chances Are.’ Listen, it sounds like us.”

            Waylon bet many of these songs would. He obliged by not speaking and letting the song ramble on as he sorted out the top of his new dress. When he looked back up it was to Gluskin’s hands. “Dance with me.”

            “I can’t,” he blurted. “I don’t know how and anyway my leg…” Though the idea of swaying to this music with his rapist was the biggest deterrent. “I’ll watch you first.”

            This was accepted and Waylon openly cringed when the large man turned his back and began to rock to the tune with his arms cocked and poised. This movement escalated into larger circles as Gluskin hummed along with the singer.

            And for all that it was strange, it was funny, embarrassingly so. That playful side of his captor was coming out again in the ridiculous and overly dramatic zeal expression he wore. Each move was purposefully terrible as attested by the laughter lines on his face. He even let himself bump into one of the pillars in the room which sent him comically reeling for his footing.

            And Waylon laughed, too.

            Gluskin wanted to calm him. He wanted to make a good time out of an otherwise unnatural setting. Waylon knew this was because of the extent of his lunacy fueled devotion. But now he didn’t know why it mattered so much. To be concise, he didn’t know why _he_ mattered so much when others had come before. He didn’t know what clicked within Gluskin to finally fasten his misplaced affection to someone when it was clear all he’d really wanted was to kill.

            Mostly he didn’t know why he laughed. It scared him because he shouldn’t have the ability to laugh in this place.

            The previously offered hands were back to silence those thoughts.

            Gluskin was at least gentle with him. Somehow he supported Waylon’s weight so he didn’t have to aggravate his wound. The drawback was the way this forced their bodies to press together as they moved.

            As for the song, he would’ve been better off going in on the last one. At least it would’ve saved him a psychological crisis. This singer, another he didn’t know because he’d never been a fan of old songs began by claiming his song’s fictional recipient as his. Apparently they _belonged together_ and usually the father-of-two was more eloquent with his thoughts and words but this was _creeping the ever-loving fuck out of him_.

            The slow singing and hard strumming of the guitar produced a combination that struck all the wrong parts of him. Nothing like emotional whiplash with thoughts _and_ music to tempt a panic attack. He was sure, though, that this was a song he would’ve found weird before this place.

            He specifically remembered when he was young and watching a movie he shouldn’t; a stupid, stupid movie called _Sleepwalkers_. Stephen King, he remembered. What he didn’t remember was mot of that movie save for a scene where the heroine had been forced to dance with a bloody, eyeless monster. It was a predicament he could appreciate. This was all to the song _Sleepwalk_ and it had effectively turned him away from old music for life.

           These lyrics wanted to sound like passion but all he heard were obsession and possession.

           “Not this one.” It was short enough, thankfully, and if he managed to get out of this mess he hadn’t learned the artist so his chances of avoiding it were high.

           Waylon reached for one of the tables behind him but Gluskin didn’t relinquish his weight. “One more,” he said. “This one has bounce. This will be ours.”

           If the other female voice had been gorgeous this one was exquisite. There was more step overall but the mastery over this voice, endearing and charming, made it hard for Waylon to condemn it with his hate. Not even when Gluskin’s chin found rest on his head.

           “Who is this?”

           “My favorite version of this song,” was the Groom’s explanation. “Her name was Ella Fitzgerald. Do you like it?”

           He did and he really wished he’d heard it anywhere else. He wished he’d heard it a long time ago, maybe as a kid, so he could’ve had it for longer. It was bittersweet to hear something so lovely only once and in such a capacity.

           But he’d have enough trouble getting the images of Gluskin chasing him, threatening him, and forcing inside him if he escaped. Experiencing this song again would only compound upon the memory of the confining grip of their dance, the smell of soap and copper, and the illusion of bliss still on the scabbed face.

           So they danced and despite himself he savored the only time he would hear Ella’s voice singing for an ascension to the stars, to heaven—a cruel taunt for one stuck in Hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A list of the songs discussed in this chapter in order:
> 
> Can't Take My Eyes Off You - Frankie Valli
> 
> Today I Met the Boy I'm Gonna Marry - Darlene Love
> 
> Chances Are - Johnny Mathis
> 
> We Belong Together - Ritchie Valens
> 
> Stairway to the Stars - Ella Fitzgerald cover
> 
> I recommend listening to each of these as they're either good songs or oddly creepy. Ella Fitzgerald's cover of Stairway to the Stars is by far my favorite.
> 
> Thanks for reading!!


	5. Part 5 - Eddie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie makes the final preparations for their wedding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you, thank you a million times for being so patient.
> 
> Grad school has eaten up my time but I WILL NOT leave this unfinished, I promise. I sincerely hope you enjoy this part.

            He’d had to start a new dress for his Darling.

            He’d forced himself to get her back to their room, to get food and medicine in her, and, most importantly, to get her some rest after their dancing so that she would be recovered in time for their next round. He hadn’t wanted it to end! He would’ve given anything if it hadn’t needed to but he’d feared tiring her.

            Their embrace, though not long enough, had been everything he’d ever wanted. It had been almost magical. She’d been so much more open with her smile and her laugh. Oh, it was such a charming laugh, too. His love could’ve ensnared any man she’d wanted with that combination. Everything had been so enchanting that even after his beloved had fallen asleep, even as he’d sat at his sewing machine for near two hours he continually hummed their song.

            It hadn’t occurred to him just how well it had gone with the blissful reminisce replaying in his mind distracting him from realizing how much her demeanor had changed. Perhaps this was not only evidence of her affections for him but also of her renewing health.

            He hoped for nothing more.

            It was clear, it had been clear since her apology and proven through her actions thereafter, that their fates were destined to be entwined.

            Eddie was man enough to admit he’d _known_ none of the others had been worthy. Their disinterest and fear had hurt but _his_ disinterest was disastrous. His interest had been integral to their transformations and by shunning and spurning him they’d ruined themselves.

            His Darling wanted the change. She wanted him.

            She deserved something made with only her face and her love in mind.

            He’d spent plenty of time drawing the shape of this new gown. He wanted it to lace up as a corset so that it would pronounce the dip of her waist. That way the skirt could flare out with her hips. It would portray her skinny body the way he imagined it had been and would be again.

            Though Eddie had enough fabric around for a new dress, one that would shame all his other work, he did not have the means to create a proper corset. He didn’t have the means to create much besides the dress itself. His poor love would have to walk down the aisle barefoot as it was!

            They were both very lucky he’d managed to create so many veils already and even though he was loathe to utilize something created before his fiancé had inspired him, he wanted the ceremony to be proper.

            At least one of them had been left unused, he knew.

            He turned to check and was thrilled to see the form of his lover in the doorway. Had more time passed than he’d realized? Had he neglected her for that long?

            He smiled and rose. When she hobbled forward he noticed the camera in her hand. Her eyes darted between the little machine and Eddie.

            He held out his palm for her. “What are you doing?”

            She offered her hand and let him guide her closer. “Filming you. I said I would if you got me batteries.”

            He kissed her knuckles and sat her on one of the free stools. “And why do you want to film me?”

            His love held the camera up in front of her face to capture his. “…To remember all our time together.”

            “ _All_ of our time together?” he teased.

            For all her receptiveness she still had the tact to blush. “…We’d have to hide it from… the children.”

            He tilted his head in wonder at that. “You want to make something for our children already?”

            She shrugged and then nodded, still hiding her redness behind the bobbing camera. He wanted to kiss her but she beat him to the moment with a question: “What are you making?”

            Eddie spun and freed the garment from his sewing machine to display it for her recording and her eyes. “A new dress for you. Do you like it so far?”

            “Yes.”

            His chest filled with joyful warmth, knowing he’d pleased her. “I want to lace you into it. It would be so beautiful, and so would you.” He gave her a toothy grin. “Lacing and unlacing you…well, I shouldn’t say for the children’s sake!”

            A small smile crossed her lips. “Why are you making a new one? You’ve made a lot of others.”

            Eddie didn’t like how fast a scowl took over his expression. He replaced the unfinished gown on the table and wondered how he could explain it to her. “You deserve better.”

            “…Because you love me?”

            “Yes. More than anything.”

            “Why?”

            He knew women needed reassurance from their loved one. A gentleman, a good lover and husband wouldn’t find this tedious and so Eddie didn’t mind. Rather, he was enjoying her questions and the attention. He put his chin in his hands and leaned towards her.

            “Who wouldn’t?” He shifted his weight and put one of his palms on her knee and squeezed. “You’re perfect, Darling.”

            “That’s not a good answer.”

            Eddie laughed. How spirited she could be! Well, he could be just as playful. “Then you’ll need to answer first.” She let him take the camera. “Why do you love me?”

            His lover turned her profile, in thought or shyness he did not know. His own heart had grown louder, gladdened to see her thoughts processing, eager to hear them voiced. It seemed an agonizing wait before her eyes glowed on the screen.

            “Because you take care of me.” She was reaching for the little machine. “You made me laugh.”

            He held it from her and presented his lips in its stead. He returned it only once her kiss was given and he smiled all the more openly into the lenses because of it.

            “That’s why I love you: you care about me. You need me.” He put his hand on her skin again. “Don’t you?”

            “Yes.”

            She cared. She could pretend this filming and her questions were for their children but it was so apparent that it was for her own curiosity. Curiosity born from her love.

            “Where did you learn to sew?”

            Her question made him regard his work. “I watched my mother. Do you know how to sew?”

            “No.”

            Eddie clucked his tongue at that. “You didn’t have good mother. A good mother teaches her daughter to sew.” His poor girl. He knew how hard it was to have a neglectful parent.

            “I guess,” she replied. She didn’t want to acquiesce and Eddie had half a mind to reprimand her but he wondered if her insolence wasn’t because of her own failings rather than disagreement with his words. No, she knew he was right.

            He could fix her shortcomings anyway so he offered as much: “I’ll teach you.”

            “Thank you,” his Darling sounded unsure. She smiled weakly after a few moments under his watch. “I didn’t have a good mother, you’re right. She didn’t teach me much. Thank you for being patient with me.”

            “Always.” He took her free hand. “I know you’ll be a better mother for _our_ children. You’ll be my perfect wife. Give me that.” He wanted to reassure her so he put the camera on the table. She wouldn’t move into his arms until she flipped the little screen to ensure their love was being filmed.

            Then she came easily and Eddie enfolded her in his arms. He thought he’d prefer her hair to grow but now he liked the feel of the back of her bare neck under his fingers.

            “…My father wasn’t a good father, either,” she told him.

            Of course not. He’d probably not realized the little jewel he’d had. Eddie knew, Eddie could see what she should be and what she’d become with his help.

            She was smoothing his vest. “You’ll be a good father.”

            “Of course I will.”

            “You sound sure.”

            Eddie tightened his fingers and she curled further into him. Did she doubt him when he held none for her? “You think I won’t.”

            His love gave a high-pitched noise. “Yes—yes! I think you’ll be perfect, too.”

            Touched, he kissed her head. “It’s a shame we have to wait to get pregnant.” He felt along the curve of her back. “But you seem to have more energy now… Maybe you’re ready to be fixed?”

            “Not yet.”

            He was disappointed. She’d come to find him twice on her own now, forsaking and enduring the paint to do so. If she was able to bear that then surely she could do the same with her surgery. He wanted to fix her so that they could be wed properly. This was a woman he wanted to claim as his and ever since their dance he’d found the waiting a mounting agony.

            “You’ve come to me twice,” Eddie shared his thoughts. “You’re better.”

            “I’m not,” his fiancé protested. “I’m still always tired.”

            It was a lie, spoken straight to his face. It made something unpleasant slither through his gut. Why lie? Why refuse him? _How_ could she refuse him?

            “Tired,” Eddie repeated slowly. “You’re tired and your leg is still hurt after I’ve sewn you up.” His girl leant back from him, her hands on his chest and her arms lengthening and straightening until her back met the edge of his work table. “You’re lying to me.”

            “No, I wouldn’t--…”

            “You’re lying to me.” He pulled her arms back. “You _ran_ from me _after_ you fell. You were bleeding, then.”

            “Stop, please—you’re hurting--…”

            “Hurting you?” Eddie grimaced. She didn’t know what hurt was. He grabbed her under the arms and slammed her onto the table. He clamped his hands to her wrists. “ _I’m_ hurting _you_? I thought you loved me and yet you’re stalling!” What he’d felt inside turned to fire. “You never intended to marry me!”

            “Yes, I do, Eddie! Listen to--…”

            He didn’t want to so he wrapped his hands around her throat. “You did all those things, you whore. All those things you did and after everything I gave you! I love you!” She scratched at his hands and forearms but Eddie found it didn’t hurt that badly. He watched her turn pink to red and thought it a waste but if she wouldn’t love him she wouldn’t find it elsewhere now that she was tainted.

            The air was taken from him and Eddie went reeling and sprawling back over his stool. There was a moment of confusion and disbelief between them. His betrothed could never strike out at him he’d thought once but now she was crawling back, eyes wide and full of guilt. He growled and reached for her, wounded in his heart more than his body.

            “Eddie, please!” She turned over and tried to pull herself away with the opposite edge of the table. “It’ll kill me!”

            He took her ankles and yanked her back. Her lies hurt, her defiance hurt, and now her doubts aggravated wounds already torn through his soul. “You don’t think I could fix you?!”

            Her arms were flailing and somehow she managed to slap their hands together. She entwined their fingers and held tight. She looked him in the eyes and, because of the love he bore her, he let her speak.

            “You can!” She was breathless and there were tears pinching free. “It’s me! If I’m too weak and die—y-you’ll be alone!”

            Eddie tilted his head.

            “It’ll be my fault,” she continued. There was so much pleading in her face and the tremor of her voice. “You’ll be alone and I-I can’t do that to you!”

            He’d said it several times and never had he believed it more: he was a fool. He felt so much passion towards her that often he found it difficult to believe it capable of reciprocation. Oh, she loved him, of course…

            _Of course_. Who could love him more than one who no longer cared for her own life but what his would be without her?

            She was a true woman, an example for others: she exemplified the path they should take instead of the one that lead them into the lives of whores and sluts.

            “Oh, Darling!” He couldn’t help how eagerly he pulled her up into his embrace. “It’s all right. I forgive you.”

            His fiancé was fidgeting so he loosened the hold to allow her arms to encircle him. “…You love me, right?”

            “More than anything,” he said again.

            “Then we can…we can still get married.” She was panting and ever-pink. “You love me even though I look like this, don’t you?”

            “Of course I do.” His heart lightened at the thought. He could wax on about his love for her for all eternity if they had the time. Time, however, was for a patient man. His rashness wasn’t gentlemanly but in their case it was better, more natural to follow their hearts.

            He could marry her now. He _would_ marry her now. He was about to tell her as much but as he leant back to look at her face he remembered her chest. “What about here? I could give you…”

            “We can’t risk it.” His love waited until their eyes met to explain: “The milk.”

            Eddie smiled at her. “Yes, you’re right. We can wait.”

            “And the wedding?”

            “I’ve been quick to anger but I love you.” He knew how to make it up to her, though, and he savored the way her eyes rounded when he told her. “We will get married… We’ll get married tonight!”

            “Tonight?” She was thrilled to silence and for several moments her mouth sought to form words. “But the dress isn’t done.”

            Eddie chuckled. “I’ll finish it in an hour or two and that’ll leave plenty of time to prepare the hall. Plenty of time for you to rest.”

            He offered her his hand, high and meant for her face and she leant into it.

 

            He’d placed her finished dress on a mannequin for her outside the closed door to their bedroom. Their altar still had to be perfected. In fact he wanted the entire hall to mirror the beauty of her and her dress; she’d look divine in it and so it was only right that everything look as close to heavenly as possible.

            He’d had enough fabric to drape swaths from the walls and the chairs lining the aisle. Their altar became home to their video camera, powered off for the moment. Above it all hung a cross and he stared at it intently while trying to figure out what was missing.

            It was so silly of him. Flowers!

            There were only skinny, tiny ones in his courtyard, however, so he did what he could and focused them more on the altar where they would be joined. She would love that, he knew.

            Oh, he knew, he knew. Now he knew, now he was certain.

            She loved him and she wouldn’t leave him. He’d be better to her because she was here to stay. He’d be better because now she knew better. She knew better than to doubt him, she knew better than to leave him. She knew, she knew.

            Now that he was finished she’d be rested. Yes, it was time for her to don her dress. It was time for them to wed, to eradicate the loneliness they’d held their entire lives, to satisfy their purpose in this world. They were meant for this.

            Nothing had ever made more sense. Oh, it was wonderful to have it be so clear.

            She was sitting on the edge of their bed when he peeked in at her. Her head tilted up when he stepped fully into the room.

            “Did you sleep?” he asked.

            “I did.”

            “Are you ready for our wedding? Did you see your dress?” He could hardly contain his excitement but she wouldn’t begrudge him that.

            “I didn’t.”

            “I didn’t want to wake you so I put it in the hall.” He wheeled it in and watched her expression eagerly.

            “You made this in those few hours?” She looked at him in what must have been wonder and he grinned to hear her praise. “You’re very talented, Eddie. It’s… it’s the prettiest dress I’ve ever seen.”

            “It had to be,” Eddie told her. He wanted her to feel as savored as he did at that moment. “It had to be beautiful enough to do you justice.”

            His Darling gave one of her shy smiles. “…Can you help me put it on?”

            He began by taking away what she already wore. Her bandages were still clean so he left those as they were. He was very delicate in lifting the new garment over them and her thighs until it was in place. He stood her up and directed her to lean against their set of drawers. The skirt needed only a few swipes from his hands to smooth it out before it clung very prettily to her hips. In the front he made sure it did not drag beneath her ankles and in the back he allowed it to trail the floor behind her. Every bride wanted a train, after all.

            While not a proper corset Eddie had done the best he could to make it close. She bowed her head and made no sound as he laced her. He did it tightly and then made a pretty bow of it when he’d finished. When she faced him it was as they wanted. It was sleek from her chest to her waist, accenting the womanly flare of hips that made them attractive. The binding had even graced her small breasts with a bit of cleavage.

            Eddie knew he could fix her but this was proof, even before the surgery, that no one could be more beautiful than she. He brushed her hair to the side. “Let’s find you a mirror.”

            The closest one was in the bathroom and his love stood there to stare at her doppelganger.

            “It’s perfect,” she said after he affixed the veil to her crown.

            Eddie hugged her and together they slowly walked to the little, homemade church. He couldn’t carry her, not yet; he had to save that for later. He had to save that for the threshold; it was only proper.

            His brave, beautiful bride didn’t complain. She held onto his arm and her wounded leg set their pace. At the start of the hall he put her palms on the doorframe so he could take his place to await her approach at the altar.

            He’d placed a radio behind the altar, out of view, with a tape in it. He’d gone through great lengths to procure it for their day. When he pressed play the look on her face made the effort worthwhile. She was truly surprised and surprises make happy wives.

            The wedding song worked to stun her better than he’d anticipated, however, and he was forced to beckon her down the aisle. Prompted, she found the beat easily enough even with her limp.

            Eddie’s chest filled with pride and love and things void of labels. His love was shaking when he took her hands. He was truthfully as nervous as she but it wouldn’t do for a man to allow it to show!

            His Darling stared up at him from under her lashes for long moments and then she cast a glance to where the priest should have been and where their camera sat instead, little red light blazing as it recorded.

            He tried to find someone to marry them, countless times. They’d just never made it. It was a shame but now that he was here and she with him, now that the moment had come, he was happy they didn’t have to share it.

            “We don’t need him,” he explained breathlessly when the music ended. “We just need to say what’s in our hearts and then we’re each other’s.”

            She was staring at him once more.

            “You’re nervous; I’ll go first.” Eddie had done nothing but think on his beloved since the first sight of her. Oh, there was so much inside him, so many emotions that he knew he couldn’t describe with words. She wouldn’t mind; he’d shown her enough by now. He’d given her so much and she cherished it all. He could see that. She’d cherish everything he had yet to give her and he’d give her everything she deserved.

            “Darling, I knew you were the one when I first saw you,” Eddie began. “Although you ran…” He smiled because he was teasing her and when he did she reciprocated. “But you begged my forgiveness and I knew then that you were the one. A good wife asks forgiveness, she knows her husband will take care of her… She wants to make him happy, and you’ve made me very happy.”

            Her face was red and her hands trembled. The rims of her eyes were beginning to water.

            “Don’t cry,” he whispered. “Tell me you’re happy. Tell me how you feel.”

            The trembling increased, the poor, timid girl. He spread his hands over her shoulders and squeezed. He couldn’t draw her close yet. No, for this he needed to see her face. He watched the way she opened and closed her mouth repeatedly.

            “I-I’m happy,” she finally managed. “I-I’m… You t-take good care of me and—and you…” His Darling swallowed. “I love you and…and…”

            “And?”

            “And I w-want to give you…babies.” Her voice had softened but Eddie thought the admission beautiful.

            Finding the right words had been near impossible for her as well and it charmed him. “They’ll be as beautiful as you, my love.” He trailed his hands down her arms and knotted their fingers together. “Do you want me to be your husband and love you forever?”

            “I do.” She didn’t let the silence stretch. “…Do you—do you--…”

            Was she still so uncertain of herself? He cupped her chin and leaned in close. “I do.” He kissed her and put all he could into it. It was more perfect than even their first kiss. She shivered but parted her lips and let him take care of her. She let him show her their future.

            She was back to staring when he withdrew. He stroked her cheek. “Now we’re wed.”

            With one swift move he gathered the camera and then lifted her into the cradle made by his arms. He strode back down the aisle, elated and complete. “I have one more surprise for you, Mrs. Gluskin.”

            One of her hands twisted in his lapel. “Where are we going?” she asked after they passed the hall for their bedroom.

            He’d said it was a surprise and so he didn’t answer. He carried her back through their home, passed all the whores and dresses. The staircase was beckoning when they approached. He’d pried it down earlier, chasing those who dwelt above into hiding so it wouldn’t be drawn up while he was away.

            Now he carried her up it and into the little attic. She shrank closer to him.

            “What’s wrong?” he asked.

            “I was chased through here,” she answered.

            “You were?” He could not spoil their night by letting anger drive him to bloodshed.

No, but he would remember. He could hear them in the walls, hiding and whispering. He’d remember.

            “…Are you taking me outside?”

            “I don’t have our song,” Eddie explained, giddy once again.

            “What?”

            “It’s just like our song, remember?” He had to set her to her feet to regard a locked door. “We just climbed our stairway…” Now they needed to get to their stars.

            She leaned on skeletal wood and glanced about them. “There’s no way outside through here.”

            “There is. There’s a balcony.”

            “All the doors are locked.”

            “Don’t worry, Darling, I’ll get you to those stars.” He stepped from the wood and kicked just beside the knob. It flew open with a loud crack that made her flinch in his peripheral.

            She hobbled to him without his prompting and he guided her through the haphazard, planked maze. He forced open another door and lifted her over a small barricade before she spoke again.

            “How do you know there’s a balcony?”

            “A husband should know his home!”

            “If this is part of our home why are those men allowed here?”

            “There’s only one,” Eddie answered. They’d paused at the door to the balcony. It was blocked by a metal cabinet that he pushed aside with ease.

            “What?” There was a line between his bride’s eyebrows. “I heard three men.”

            “He likes to talk to himself,” Eddie replied, though he was wary of these questions regarding other men; it was too much and too soon after their ceremony. He was going to grab her, to tell her as much but she limped around him and outside.

            She tentatively gripped the railing and Eddie forgot his annoyance in the sight of her. Though dark the white of her dress helped to illuminate her and this allowed the shadows to etch under the lines within her shoulders.

            He joined her, pleased that the fog he’d seen earlier had dissipated. Of course it had; it was another sign, a gift for their night. The stars, while not abundant due to the lights of their home, flickered above them.

            He glanced to her to see her reaction but her eyes were on the grounds and not the sky. “What are you looking at?”

            She straightened and fixed him with a sheepish smile. “I…was thinking how scary it was walking the grounds alone.” She looked back out but her gaze was a bit higher. “I’m lucky I don’t have to do that anymore.”

            Eddie felt a bit prideful at that. He scooped up her hands. “Never again.”

            “Is there a way out over there?”

            “No. Why would you want that?”

            “Not yet,” she explained and turned to him. She hesitantly touched his chin. “When we have our kids we’ll need to find a safer place to live.”

            While he enjoyed her touch something rankled within him. “Our home is safe. I made it safe.”

            “No, you’re right,” she agreed. “But what about school? Or friends?”

            Eddie took her wrist and turned it over to look at the veins streaming from palm to elbow. “You’ll teach them…We’ll have one right after the other so they can grow together.” He pushed his thumb against the blue lines and watched her hand go rigid.

            His wife buckled her knees and swung her face into his view. “You’re right! You’ve thought of everything.” She was breathless but she sounded impressed. “You’re such a good husband.”

            “I’ve done everything for you.”

            “I…I know; it’s like a dream and so sometimes I forget.” As she stood back up Eddie followed her face. “What about a honeymoon? We could travel… A lot of people travel.”

            “We only need each other and our home for our honeymoon,” he told her.

            His love laughed. “You’re right. This is the start of it.” Now she looked up at the sky. “…Thank you for bringing me out here.”

            “I knew it would make you happy.” He placed his hands on her shoulders and rubbed her skin. “It’s the next best thing after our song. Do you remember it? Maybe you can sing it so we can dance.”

            His spouse turned and stepped into his arms. “…Can you sing it? Like you sang when we first met.”

            Eddie pulled her close, so close she had to press her cheek and hands to his chest. She smoothed her hands along his vest and hen offered them so they could dance properly. Eventually, though, one palm went back to his chest, to cover his heart as he serenaded her under their stars.


	6. Part 6 - Waylon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waylon attempts to enact his plan for freedom, his hope renewed but challenged by more obstacles than he expected.

            Needless to say, Waylon had never attempted to pickpocket before his imprisonment in the asylum. As such, his failure wasn’t so surprising, nor should it have been so disappointing.

            He’d placed his hand over the keys while they’d danced. His fingers had been trembling, shamefully, against the uneven metal, and maybe that added to his failure. There had only been a few moments to act, and he hadn’t. Gluskin had been so eager to touch him, to be close, and when he curled his fingers around Waylon’s, there were no more chances.

            He had to let his hand stay, cocooned over the patient’s heart.

            They made their way back to their room the same way they’d come: Waylon curled within long arms and carried over the threshold, his camera on his stomach catching the entire route.

            It came to him during that trip, and was more obvious when he was set to the sheets: getting those keys required those mismatched clothes’ removal and their owner deep asleep.

            It was going to happen anyway. Well, something was going to happen. It was clear that Gluskin wasn’t going to try and penetrate him unless he was ‘fixed.’ Waylon had no delusions this was to save him from the same suffering; this was so the Groom could save himself from his own memories.

            It was a testament to his insanity that he could look beyond the programmer’s flat chest, that he could even enjoy him.

            He was enjoying Waylon now, keeping his promise to unlace his wife slowly. He sat at the edge of the bed, thighs spread to make room between them. Waylon stood with his back to the larger man, but he could envision the adoration across the scabbed features.

            His corset became looser, starting at the top, and as it did Gluskin pecked kisses to his back. He chuckled at one point. Waylon didn’t care why, but dutifully he turned over his shoulder and asked: “What is it?”

            His new husband met his eyes with a curl to his lips. “I knew this was a good idea. Every part of you is beautiful.”

            Not every part. Waylon faced front again, not wanting to steel both his face and voice if he didn’t have to. “You always have good ideas. I’m very lucky.”

            Hard arms coiled around his waist and the feel of an uneven, marred cheek touched to his skin. The technician set his fingers to the hold and caressed it.

            “So am I,” Gluskin sounded breathless.

            The embrace held for a moment longer and then the untying continued. Waylon lifted his arms so that the dress could slip from his body and gather at his ankles. He turned and stepped when guided so the dress could be nudged away. Turned round, the ‘bride’ looked down and waited.

            Gluskin wasn’t viewing anything new but the expression he wore made it hard to tell. His hands and eyes moved together, up and down, mapping and maybe memorizing. When satisfied, the patient stood. Waylon tilted his head back and welcomed the incoming kiss.

            The Groom took Waylon in his arms like they were in some classic movie. I was forceful but not painful. The kiss changed as well, demanding and claiming. When Gluskin withdrew he ran the tip of his nose against and across Waylon’s. Then he sighed and touched their foreheads.

            “I’m going to make you so happy,” he promised. “But now I want you to feel good.”

            Waylon shifted under the hands splayed along his spine.

            “Did you take your pain pills?”

            “Yes.” He hoped he was asking because of his leg, but realized he couldn’t leave that up to the larger man. He brought up his hands to undo the buttons on the patchy vest. When it was open he slipped his fingers under the lapels and swept them up and over his shoulders so that the material slipped off the long arms. The keys clanked within their confines when they hit the floor.

            Waylon looked back up at the patient. “You’ve done so much for today…I want to make _you_ feel good.” He held too-blue eyes and did not wince when he used his wounded leg to toe the vest under their bed, out of sight and out of his groom’s mind.

            “Darling,” Gluskin husked. His gaze dropped to his partner’s mouth.

            Waylon made it smile and then worked on his dress shirt slowly. If his movements were too fast it could break the illusion he was trying to maintain. He had to act like he enjoyed it, like he wanted it. It would get him that key and that key was what he wanted.

            The bigger man aided in getting the material off his arms and to the floor this time, further obscuring the opening to the underside of the bed. The technician tucked his fingers at the Groom’s fly, starting when gloved hands stopped him.

            He glanced up and then was drawn closer so that Gluskin could sit and then recline back on their bed without fragmenting their proximity. Waylon climbed after him gingerly, straddling the broad, tapered shape of his hips. That made no sense, he was aware, but the man was broad all over and kept too narrowly close to physical perfection. That as the way of it in prisons, he suspected; give them weights for their aggression. It wasn’t something he expected of a mental hospital.

            Unless those scientists had wanted him this way. Physical strength clearly didn’t necessitate nor facilitate a similar level in the mental realm, and it was only safe to assume that had been Gluskin’s failing.

            Waylon was going to assure it would continue to be so.

            He played his scheming as shyness when the other man tilted his head. He made his touch tentative and didn’t suppress the tremors skewing the lines of his fingers. The muscles were hard beneath him and they could do terrible things, and that fear was now easily played as innocent and hesitant, now that Waylon had grown accustomed to feeling it.

            He obscured half his eyes with his lashes when he glanced back up and smiled. He moved his hands from stomach to ribs to chest to shoulders to neck. His throat was thick as his skull; Waylon wouldn’t have the strength to end it this way, let alone the hand size, but he traced the column there and thought about how it would yield to a blade just like any other.

            Gluskin pulled him down by the back of his head so they could kiss. This guidance continued, the heavy hand placing him at the angle of his jaw, where Waylon kissed, at his throat, where Waylon kissed, and at his collarbone, where Waylon kissed. The pattern learned, the bride lowered his mouth and kissed at the bundles of muscles and nerves. He touched the larger man’s nipples in passing, a test because not every man was responsive there as Waylon was.

            The Groom seemed to enjoy it but did not protest when the focus moved to his stomach. Waylon counted the muscles that covered his ribs with his fingers and the muscles of his abdomen with his mouth. Gluskin’s touch curled at the back of his head again, not guiding but encouraging.

            He obeyed and let his mouth and tongue and teeth linger.

            Gluskin began to pet his head when he stayed low and gave attention to the skin along and under the waistband of his briefs. He had to grudgingly admit it felt good, the scratch of nails on his skull. He didn’t remove the underwear entirely; he hitched it down the sides of the older man’s hips and let it cup and bunch under his heavy balls, supporting and practically offering them.

            The patient liked that; the moment Waylon resituated himself, stomach on the sheets and elbows on the mattress, and Gluskin sat up, bunched over him with a shaking hand aiming the red head of his excitement at Waylon’s mouth.

            He let it in easier this time. He opened his mouth, damning his jaw to later soreness, and minded his teeth.

            “Beautiful, you’re so beautiful and so good,” a murmur said above him.

            Waylon let his ears burn with the praises, heeding them and curling and sliding his tongue. He wrapped his fingers around the base because his lips would never reach there. Now, he did what he would have liked, had liked in the past. There were ways to get Gluskin off, and the quicker the better. This orgasm and the long hours the patient had been awake would ensure a deep sleep.

            The technician withdrew so he could place his mouth around the tip of the larger man’s penis. He sucked it and let the pads of his fingers drag the skin along the length below. He ran his tongue along its ridges and its slit and swallowed down the pre-ejaculate he was given for the effort.

            “Darling.” His voice had been getting softer and deeper and huskier since the wedding. Waylon wasn’t going to allow it to disarm him. None of his other victims had made it this far; there was no precedent and therefore no promise of safety. Thinking otherwise would get him killed. Thinking he could keep acting the part and playing Gluskin’s desires would get him killed.

            He took what he could in his mouth again, repeating the motion and listening to the growing raggedness in the breath ghosting his neck and shoulders. It was closer now and there was drool pouring from the corners of his lips, covering sensitive skin and coating his hands. His lungs and nostrils were burning from the effort but he tried to suck everything he’d given back up, knowing the pleasure in it.

            But Gluskin pulled him away; it wasn’t painful nor fast, but surprising to feel his cheeks cupped and head lifted. His body was cupped next, lifted like nothing and deposited up against the pillows.

            At a loss, Waylon stared as the briefs were tossed aside and his husband rejoined him with a bottle. It was a bottle of vegetable oil.

            Waylon clenched the bed. “What’s that?”

            “It’s oil. It’s going to make things easier for us.” Arguable.

            “What things?” The pulse in his neck had never been louder. It was like a deafening pounding tumor, it felt so obstructive.

            “Making love,” Gluskin said plainly.

            Nothing was calmed in the moments the programmer took to breathe. “But I can’t do that for you yet.”

            His chuckle was deep and husky. “Not that just yet, no. But we—…”

            Panic won. “I can’t take you there. I can’t.”

            “Take me where?” Then he seemed to understand and it didn’t seem as if he could decide between amusement or something darker. Ultimately the darkness settled under his brow, hooding his eyes and lining and angling his face. “I would never hurt you like that.”

            No, he wouldn’t. He’d hurt in other ways to achieve a facsimile of femininity that he would then destroy.

            “You think I would--…”

            “No,” Waylon breathed, relieved. He had two things to attain with his next words and actions. He needed to calm Gluskin’s anger but keep him impassioned so that his blood remained thrumming.

            No,” he repeated. He put his hands on his shoulder muscles and drew him down above and against. “Never you. You’re going to make me feel good.” He lifted his face, expectant and rewarded with a kiss. He flicked his tongue and let Gluskin groan and slather into his mouth. Everything was passion with this man. Waylon had welcomed the heavy weight of him onto his body and between his legs, and his groom was taking advantage of it. He humped against the homemade panties, uncoordinated and almost desperate.

            He kept groaning into Waylon’s mouth and received grunts in turn, grunts that the smaller man managed to keep higher in pitch although they were created by the weight upon him and the friction heating the spaces where they were connected. His was fine, uncomfortable, but he could get him off this way. An extra expenditure of energy was welcome, especially if he didn’t have to swallow any of the end result.

            He wasn’t surprised when Gluskin sat up this time. He wouldn’t be penetrated, and so far he hadn’t been hurt, so he was able to clamp down on his worry.

            His husband’s chest expanded and then tightened when the air left and it was a movement, normally this made his entire body move but now, besides the shake to his breath, he was steady. His hands were sure when he took the outside of Waylon’s thighs and twisted them to the side. The ex-employee was going to follow with his chest but a wide palm stopped him.

            So he paused, thighs together, hips angled and back, and his stomach twisted so that his shoulders were flat on the pillow and his view full of Gluskin.

            He removed the gloves then, replanting his bare hand on Waylon’s thigh to keep him steady as the other retrieved the bottle. Waylon put his hands on his thigh and returned the smile he was given.

            Gluskin was careful with the oil in his hand until he could spread and slick it between his bride’s thighs. It wetted him at the top, dampening and then slick and soaking the crotch of the panties as the patient continued to ready the area.

            What remained on his palms transferred to his cock.

            Waylon braced himself, arms spread across the mattress as Gluskin gripped him and then pushed his erection between the cushions of his thighs.

            His thrusting was even, firm, and unlike their earlier frottage. Everything about the large man looked strong and formidable as he fucked between Waylon’s legs.

            At one point, his partner moved one of his hands to the programmer’s chest, tickling his nipples with his finger pads. Waylon grit his teeth behind a close-lipped smile at the swirling and then the soft plucking. He had to give up the breath he held when Gluskin curled over him and suctioned his mouth over one of the pink circles. The sucking could be ignored but the rapid fire back and forth flicking of his tongue wrangled sounds from Waylon that fortified his husband into prolonged attention.

            The restart of his hips’ motions did not help the situation, either. Waylon was tucked away, uncomfortably so with the administrations wrought upon the area. He might have felt shame only a day or two before at such a reaction, but shame seemed distant compared to the looming image of a caged door opening to freedom.

            His body was a body; an overworked, high strung one that had had no way for release or relaxation until now. The motions of sex were motions of sex and he knew bodies responded to nothing better.

            He was grateful, yet again, to be bound away.

            He tentatively set his fingers to the shaved part of the head above him. His partner’s excitement channeled through his tongue, more active and zealous against the second nub. He lifted his mouth and kissed over Waylon’s heart loudly, before straightening his back and resuming his thrusting. He kept his hand stroking what he could reach on the smaller man.

            “You’re gorgeous,” Gluskin breathed. “You’re perfect, you’re perfect. Oh, I love you so.”

            Waylon touched his searching arm and let him press his thighs tighter together.

            “Soon,” Gluskin promised. “Soon I’ll make true love to you and we’ll make our baby and we’ll be so happy. Finally.”

            “Soon,” Waylon echoed for a different reason.

            The patient groaned at him and sped his undulations. Their skin slapped together and the back of Waylon’s thighs jiggled where they were struck.

            The moment the thrusts began to stutter, Gluskin was taking his right leg and spreading it far. Then his cock was in his hand and the muscles of his stomach were clenching. He grunted, the sound catching in his throat as he aimed his seed to coat Waylon’s panties.

            He milked himself and smeared he head against his bride’s thigh in small swipes. His eyes moved to Waylon’s face and he stared.

            If he had held it a second longer the technician might have been fearful, but he blinked and then his mouth grinned. He shifted and slowly stretched out behind Waylon, curling his arms about his chest and very carefully situating high thigh between the smaller two.

            “Darling,” he whispered, warm and moist. His lips followed the words to his ear and then down to his neck.

            His hips were moving against Waylon’s ass but he remained flaccid. The report had listed him in his late forties: he’d stay that way. Still, a hand slid from his stomach to the crotch of the underwear and Waylon winced as they moved slowly, back and forth over where his length was tucked back and away, smearing the seed left there. The kisses at his neck and shoulder turned to sucking. The hand pressed firmer.

            And it felt good. Fucking hell, it felt good.

            Waylon cupped both hands around Gluskin’s forearm but he couldn’t try to stop him, he didn’t try to stop him. He pressed his fingertips in hard and moved with the rocking started behind him.

            “Does that feel good?”

            “Yes,” Waylon admitted obediently.

            Gluskin never pressed harder, but he did move faster and Waylon didn’t realize he’d been turning his head from the pillow then for air until the clumsy touch of lips hit the corner of his mouth. So he obeyed and twisted his neck, uncomfortable so, and let their mouths meet.

            When they parted Gluskin pressed his face to his wife’s cheek and Waylon jerked and whispered no as much as he could dare.

            “Yes,” was his encouragement, “yes, it’s alright, you’re so beautiful.”

            His face burned and he choked on his voice when he came.

            A smile touched his skin. “You’re gorgeous.” Gluskin cradled him, wet hand streaking over his chest. “We’re so happy.”

            The programmer shook and blinked his eyes furiously to clear them. “…Thank you.”

            Another kiss to his neck. “I love you.”

            “I love you, too.”

            “Soon we’ll do this inside you,” Gluskin said. He nestled even closer. “We’ll keep trying until we get one of each. You’d like a little girl, wouldn’t you?”

            “Yes,” Waylon answered.

            “She’ll be beautiful because of you.”

            “And you. Her… her daddy isn’t so bad looking.”

            Gluskin’s laugh vibrated through their embrace. “I want to make love to you again.”

            Waylon pushed a laugh this time. “You need to sleep first. You’ve barely slept because you’ve been taking care of me and making everything perfect for our wedding.”

            His husband hummed his agreement, which turned into a tune of its own. It tapered off after a while, too long a while, during which the younger man had to fight to keep his treacherous eyes open.

            Pulling from the strong arms proved easier than he’d expected. He rolled onto his side and faced Gluskin to stare hard at his features for long minutes, some of the longest of his life. That longevity continued in the painful, slow movements he made, shifting his weight to his hips to sit up, and then stretching his legs towards the edge of the bed. He used his arms to inch until his knees bent and his feet hung over the floor.

            He stood and Gluskin remained in his slumber, and Waylon hoped.

            He’d kicked the vest a good way under the bed and he held his breath as he reached and felt for it. It was like silk against his fingers for how good it felt. He crushed it to his chest as he scooted back from the bed, a laugh withheld in his throat.

            It died there when a loud bang all but screamed through the halls of Gluskin’s home. Several more followed and these roused him.

            He turned on his side and narrowed sleepy eyes. “What are you doing?”

            Waylon’s eyes burned and he began to shake with frustration, exhaustion, but no fear. “I heard a sound.”

            The patient tilted his head into the pillow and they waited, eyes locked, until the statement was vindicated. Gluskin stood immediately and pulled his briefs back on. Waylon handed him his slacks and dress shirt wordlessly. He balked when a re-gloved hand dropped in front of his face.

            Lost, Waylon put the vest there and watched it cover the big torso.

            “Don’t be scared,” he was told. “I’ll keep you safe. Stay here.” It wasn’t an option; he locked the door after himself.

            Waylon threw the nearest thing—a box of crackers—against the wall as hard as he could and felt completely unsatisfied even as the little squares went flying. He reached for the panties on his hips next, ripping the wet fabric and letting it slap soundly to the floor. He yanked the duct tape next, pleased at the burn it left behind to replace how over sensitized it had felt. The pouch he’d been made wouldn’t tear but it came down easily enough. He threw it somewhere in the vicinity of the crackers and drew his penis back out.

            Then he lost his balance and had to sit and listen and think.

            What did he have now?

            Waiting was going to kill him; waiting was already killing him.

            Whoever was breaking into and through this terrain was no hope. They were truly insane to even brave the area. If they’d been as oblivious as Waylon had they were dead already. It wasn’t likely with the mutations these patients had suffered, but if they managed to charm Gluskin there was no guaranteed safety for the programmer.

            Death or death. He’d be cut open and die from it. If he didn’t, he’d die from infection. If he didn’t, though he would, he’d die with the Groom’s cock in him. At least he’d never have to experience the repeated attempts at pregnancy and then the ramifications of all the failures.

            Even now, though done through his anger, his undressing, his reclamation of his masculinity would get him beat or killed. Yet I was getting hard to care anymore, so he sullenly wiped himself clean with the sheets and redressed in the slacks he’d taken from Gluskin before, and a thin, hand-made shirt.

            He could hear the slamming of bars or gates in the distance. This patient was trying the exit he’d been planning to use.

            He shuffled to the door and pressed his ear to it, stilling his breath as much as he could. Being a patient meant this man was undoubtedly stronger than Waylon. He couldn’t let himself hope this person could take on Gluskin, but maybe he could serve as a distraction. Maybe he could serve as a partner.

            Though now he remembered the victim he’d tried and failed to recruit. It felt like forever ago and yet he felt guilt renewed.

            There was the sound of bare feet coming down the hall. Not Gluskin, then. Definitely not, since the overlapping pattern meant more than one pair. Voices came then, confirming this assumption with three distinct tones. Waylon closed his eyes to listen, hoping sure to discern them from the man who had chased him in the attic.

            “Try the doors,” one voice said.

            The handles rattled uselessly on many of them, the one above him included. Then his door bulged back, sudden against the side of his face. He hissed and everything stilled.

            “Did you hear that? Someone’s in there.”

            Unthinking, Waylon stood and wobbled backwards.

            “There was a shadow!” A second voice.

            “You think it’s the Groom?” So they’d avoided him so far.

            “Why would he lock himself away?”

            “Because there’s three of us,” the third answered.

            “Break it down,” the first said. “We need to find the key.” The door bulged in again.

            Waylon lunged to the side of the nearest set of drawers, gritting his teeth against the pain in his shin as he shoved the block of wood in front of the door. He snatched up his camera from where it had been set before he’d been undressed, preventing it from tumbling over the side. He stumbled back then at a particularly hard knock.

            “Open the door!”

            Gluskin had taken his knife with him. Empty boxes of food weren’t going to help him here, either. There was nothing he could see to use in the room. Even the chunks of wood so literally spread over the asylum weren’t present.

            The door splintered, though, mercifully sending a good chunk to rest in front of Waylon’s toes. He picked it up and brandished it.

            The three laughed at him and shoved the dresser forward. They were all scared and ugly, the largest of them missing chunks of his nose. The normal sized one was bald and his eyes so dark they looked completely black. The third was a rail of a man, and it was clear he’d only survived because of his cohorts.

            Why hadn’t Gluskin heard any of this?

            “You’re going to have to make that count,” No-Nose said.

            For his part, Waylon did. He swung his arm out and managed to catch one of them, the middle-sized one, on his cheek. It got him stumbling to his knees, though Waylon ended up on his back quickly thereafter, tackled by the remaining two. Luckily he avoided cracking his head on the floor.

            “Where’s the key?” No-Nose asked. The swell of his forearm was a heavy pressure at Waylon’s adam’s apple.

            “I don’t have it,” Waylon croaked.

            “Gluskin does, I told you,” the smallest said.

            The technician scrabbled at the arm that held him. “I—I can get it from him.” Though that was a lie.

            No-Nose seemed to sense it. “How? If you could, you’d be gone already.”

            “Unless he likes it here,” Smalls interjected.

            The bald one laughed, a harsh sound that must have hurt his cheek to make. “Of course he does, can’t you smell it? I think he just got himself fucked.”

            “That’s one way to stay alive,” No-Nose commented. He was putting more weight into his arm.

            “That’s disgusting,” Smalls bit out. Waylon shook with a sudden fury at the contempt there. Unable to do anything about it however, he only wished he’d conked him instead of the third guy.

            “Not to him,” No-Nose said.

            “He likes being Gluskin’s little wife,” Baldy sneered. “He likes being fucked.”

            Waylon felt the blood in his face and knew it wasn’t only because of the clamp at his throat.

            “He likes staying alive,” No-Nose told them. There was some calculation there. “I can keep you alive.”

            He tried to ask how but it didn’t come out.

            Still, the big patient explained, “You think it’s only the three of us in here?”

            Waylon lost his grip.

            “We can kill him,” Baldy supplied, “and get that key.”

            “You’ll… let me out?”

            Baldy crowed in laughter and then thumbed his reddened cheek. “What’ll you give me? Will you make this up to me?”

            Waylon bucked uselessly, enraged. He hadn’t fought for this. He hadn’t suffered to die like this, and he was _not_ going to let anyone humiliate him the way he’d been ever again.

            “So where are your friends, then?” He barely recognized the snarl that was his voice. “I bet they’re dead. Gluskin’s killed them and he’s going to do the same to you. He’s going to pick you off one by one.”

            Baldy scoffed, but No-Nose and Smalls regarded him seriously.

            “…He’ll give me the key,” Waylon tried again, direction this to their apparent leader since he seemed the most coherent.

            But it was Smalls who spoke: “We can use him in a trade. We get the key and Gluskin gets his slut.”

            “Yeah,” Baldy agreed. “He deserves it for being a coward.”

            He’d been a coward for several years. He’d been a coward running through this asylum. He’d been a coward in Gluskin’s grasps. That had begun to change when he’d had a chance. Waylon wasn’t ready to give up his newfound bravery yet.

            He bucked again, startling No-Nose enough to dislodge his arm. He earned a backhanded slap across his face for that. He reeled from it, dazed with his vision blown white. They lifted him then and he let his head roll to the side. When it did he could hear the tearing of stitches.

            An unfinished shirt or an early design, whatever the reason, Gluskin hadn’t done justice to this article and it was going to save him.

            Waylon lurched from them and the seams tore at his shoulders, freeing him. He somehow managed to take his stumbling momentum and launch his body over the drawers and out into the hall. He heard the curses behind him, but he had the lead, and he had more speed than he thought he would.

            It hurt, and he wasn’t doing his leg any favors, but Gluskin _had_ patched him well.

            Still, he was not as fast as he’d like. A thin hand grabbed his arm, and Waylon knew it was the small one so he hauled back with his elbow. He was more than satisfied with the following crunch.

            Small screeched and flew backwards so dramatically he took his friends aback. It gave Waylon the opening he needed. He sprinted to the gym, the knowledge of the vent that intersecting Gluskin’s realm urging him. He knew it would give him respite and keep his attacks at bay.

            He tossed the camera up before jumping himself, hauling his weight. A hand just missed his ankle by the feel of displaced air near his toes. He curled up next to the protruding head at the end, its owner long since dead and nauseatingly pungent. Still, he tried to regain his breath.

            “You can fit.”

            “Lift me up.”

            He lost it all over again when he Smalls’ head and shoulders came into view. He was an ugly man, probably was before his imprisonment, and the grimace over his freshly bloodied face made it worse.

            Waylon jolted away, falling unceremoniously into the kitchen, mindful to land on his back to preserve his camera. It didn’t hurt, but it gave Smalls’ the time needed to catch up. He reached out, aiming to grab him around the shoulders. The ex-employee grabbed at the nearest thing and yanked it through the air at his attacker’s head.

            The pan gave a deafening _thunk_ , and then so did Small’s body.

            He wasn’t dead. In fact, he rolled there, moaning and covering his face. There was more blood now, from nose and mouth. Waylon neared him and lifted his arm to make more.

            “Please,” Smalls sobbed. His voice was wet with the red stuck to his yellow teeth. “Please, don’t! I’m sorry, please!”

            The technician remembered the times he’d begged for the same thing, and damn him, he still couldn’t let that decide for him. He still couldn’t smash a man’s skull to pieces. So he ran.

            The pot is heavy in his hand, but reassuring in a way he hadn’t known in days. He could hear the two larger men bellowing and stomping. He ducked down and away, allowing their forms to pass, before he made for the hall that would take him to the gated door and the gym on one side, the rest of the Groom’s home on the other.

            He turned to go to the gate but a shadow darkening his feet stopped him.

            It was Gluskin.

            He was covered in blood, not his own, and that broad chest was heaving, his entire torso rocking with it. His fists were clenched, one around a knife larger than any Waylon had seen before. His eyes were so blue from within the dark liquid on his face.

            Briefly, Waylon panicked that the patient wouldn’t recognize him.

            But then the Groom whispered, “Darling,” and the Bride released the breath he’d held.

            He didn’t take his eyes from the older man, but he wanted to. Behind them the three had reconnected, and their voices were a crescendo of anger. If Waylon turned back and hid, they’d kill Gluskin, exhausted as he was, and get the key, leaving Waylon to an unknown fate. That meant death or rape. If he let himself become a bartering tool, they’d get the key, and Waylon would remain and die. If he stepped behind his husband, they’d both die.

            Pained, Waylon turned and stepped to Gluskin. “They want the keys, Eddie. Give them the keys and they’ll leave.” Stop being insane for a moment, he wanted to add, to scream.

            “They hurt you,” Gluskin observed. The attackers were drawing near, and the patient tilted his head to the noise. He stalked the distance between him and his wife and held out his hand.

            Waylon tucked the camera beneath his arm to switch his pan so he could offer a free one. When the older man withdrew the keys lay in his palm.

            “Go up,” he was told. “I’ll find you once I’ve killed these animals.” No longer whores, but animals. Would he see any of the others as women anymore?

            Waylon felt his fingers bend and cage the metal. He shook, overcome.

            “Wait for me; I’ll rip them apart for touching you.”

            Someone would be ripped apart, he thought. No-Nose was heavier and just as tall as Gluskin, and Baldy above average himself. The two of them could kill the man next to him. Waylon didn’t know if his groom knew it. He didn’t know if he recognized how foolish his decision was.

            There was something curled in Waylon’s gut: anxiety and apprehension and simmering hate. He’d wanted to use the two against one another and now he was getting it.

            And his freedom lay in his hand, a gift of love and protection from the deranged man before him.

            Before it was wasted and stolen by the trio of attackers, who had caught up and stopped at the sight of Gluskin, Waylon took it.

            “He’s got the key!”

            It fit smooth into the lock and smoother upon turning. The gate didn’t even make a sound as he swung it open. Now free, he flipped on his camera with one hand and armed himself with the pan in the other again.

            He made it to the top of the first flight before arms locked around his legs and sent his chest to the platform. Baldy loomed over him.

            “You little bitch!”

            Waylon bashed his teeth out, literally, with all the force he could put into his swing. Baldy recoiled to his knee on a lower step and began to make horrible noises. So, Waylon hit him again with all the strength he could muster. It sent his body falling backwards and bodily down the stairs. He didn’t move after his landing but Waylon turned away, not wanting to stay to watch.

            There was shouting behind him and hallways before him. He limped down one and then another. When he got to the first one with windows he stopped and stared at the dawn of the day and the flaming image of a church outside.

            The sound of voices, professional with no slurs, drew him to the end of the hall. He crouched when he saw that those men were armed—cops, mercenaries, SWAT?—and peered at them through the barred door that separated them. They were discussing the dead, disfigured man at their feet. They were discussing leaving.

            When they turned away and Waylon slipped by, they were discussing deadly force. That forced him to remain in his crouch, though it was steadily seeping the last of his strength to do so. The strain of it eventually made him forgo his pot so he can support with a hand against the walls.

            He only stood when there were sudden screams and gunfire, so far away from him he could only hear it over dead men’s radios.

            When he came to familiar stairs, he used the last of his energy to sprint down them and into the reception hall. He didn’t smile, though he wanted to, just forced himself to the main desk. He cast a lance to the dead security guard still slouched in his chair.

            Then there was a grunt, and then his name.

            “How the fuck are you still alive?” Incredulity and pain.

            Jeremy Blaire was propped against the exit, barring it even as he bled, hopefully to death. There was a breath drawn and from the look of him, Blaire was weighing his options.

            Waylon didn’t move from the desk.

            “Let’s…make a deal? You help me; I help you.” His head rolled to watch the technician. “Help me up.”

            Waylon stared now that it was his turn for incredulity. He looked to the guard again and then reached over to his belt to take the handcuffs and keys there. Blaire wasn’t going to leave, and he wasn’t going to get even the hope of a chance.

            The keys went into his pocket and the handcuffs were at the ready as he approached his former boss.

            “Help me up,” Blaire repeated. “Please.”

            Waylon reached for his arm, grim and determined. But Blaire was always a lying asshole, a snake looking for a way to advance only himself. The programmer should’ve known. But he didn’t and he sucked in a breath as he got a knife in the stomach for it.

            They reeled away from one another, Blaire off balance by his clumsy stab but still afoot, and Waylon to his knees, cupping his wound. The blade hadn’t gone into him fully and the blood wasn’t flowing through and over his fingers, but he couldn’t stand. He couldn’t do anything but watch Jeremy Blaire approach.

            The knife pointed at him. “No one can know!” He was shoved to his back. “No one!”

            Blaire never got to land the killing blow. A shadow swept over him, and Waylon didn’t know—Blaire’s body was a ragdoll in its grasp and he screamed and begged as it manipulated him.

            His last word was ‘please’ and then he screamed as his body was shred apart.

            Waylon shielded himself from the torrent of blood, both face and wound. When the world was silent again he tried to sit. It hurt and so he turned onto his good leg and side and waited, for just a few moments, to gather his strength and breath.

            He closed his eyes and remained that way for long minutes, focused on drawing air into his chest and the way it pulled at his abdomen.

            “Darling,” he heard then.

            He didn’t know how he looked at Gluskin, what expression he made. He didn’t really want to move, save for his head. What he did know, was that he was a little more than relieved that he hadn’t sent the large man to his death, at least for the sake of never having to see the three that had attacked them rear their ugly heads again. Or maybe he was going crazy, too, or maybe it was the fact that he’d been saved, or his blood loss, or all three making him a fool.

            Beyond that, he was unsure how to feel.

            When Gluskin stepped into the light it was clear the fight hadn’t been easy. Some of the scabbing on his face had been torn, and fresh blood had been smeared from his cheek back to his ear and even father, to the bare sections of his skull. There was more blood on his clothing overall, though it was unclear if any of it was his. He walked stiffly but helped Waylon to his feet.

            “Come on, Darling. We’ll fix you back downstairs.”

            Waylon didn’t respond when he stepped from the help and shuffled to the door, one hand on his stomach and the other clenching his video camera, still recording. The handcuffs dangled from his pinky, just under his new wound.

            The Groom stayed on his heels as they met the sunlight.

            “Darling, where are we going?”

            “Leaving,” he informed. “It’s not safe here.”

            The patient blocked him and Waylon looked up, weary.

            “I made it safe again.”

            Waylon didn’t have time to think it before he felt it. He was so fed up. He was fed up with pretending and carefully choosing his words. He was close to freedom or death and he was so done being denied one and teased with the other. He didn’t even know which was which.

            “Eddie, I need to leave. I’m going to die if I stay here.”

            He let the sentence sink into Gluskin’s mind. He had lost his knife, but his fists will be enough at this point if his bloodlust and delusions hadn’t abated. Blue eyes raked his face and still, Waylon thought his own face incapable of displaying whatever he was looking for.

            Gluskin took his wrist. He led them with a step and Waylon matched it. He allowed most his weight to be taken by the large body beside them as they checked all the vans around them. They were all locked or missing keys, so Waylon turned them through the center of the roundabout and towards the main gate.

            There was a red jeep waiting for them. He knew whose it was and it made him pause.

            Miles Upshur was dead because of him. An innocent man was dead and Waylon was leading a murderer and his own rapist out to his car.

            “Darling?”

            The handcuffs were still there, and though he hadn’t personally known his contact, he figured he could still do something for him. For himself, for Upshur, and even for Gluskin and all the other test subjects. Because he had his camera. He had more than his camera, now.

            “Wait here.” He limped to the passenger side door which was, fortunately, open. He was tempted to collapse across the seats briefly, but he discarded his camera in the driver’s seat instead before turning back to the door at his back. He looped the chain of the cuffs through the handrail and allowed them to hang. He straightened to hide them.

            “Come on.”

            Gluskin came at the beckon.

            “Get in.”

            There was hesitancy there, a rankling in his shoulders and back.

            “You don’t know where we’re going,” Waylon tried to find the fake, docile tone he’d used to stay alive all those hours under the patient’s whims. He knew he failed but it didn’t seem enough to deter the large body from slipping into the seat.

            Before his weight was settled Waylon grabbed both his wrists and yanked them to the door. Gluskin’s head bounced off the ceiling, nothing compared to his wounds, but it gave enough time for the handcuffs to latch and lock him into place.

            His eyes blazed, just like they did whenever Waylon had overstepped his deluded boundaries. His lips curled and parted, something derogatory about to be shared, surely.

            Waylon slammed the door before the words got out.

            He had to pause and will away the shaking from his adrenaline as he rounded the front of the vehicle. It didn’t go away, but when he felt at least marginally better he looked up to find that Gluskin’s weren’t the only eyes on him.

            He could see shadow, the shadow that killed Blaire, the shadow from dreams, from the mountain.

            He got into the front seat then, jerking the camera from under his leg and the door shut simultaneously. He could see something among the shadows and when he forced the camera to zoom he found it to be a figure, black and impassive even at that distance. Around it the shadows began to grow and reach.

            Waylon dropped the camera to his lap and he’d barely started the car before he was making the most impressive turn of his life. Then he plowed the closed gate down.

            He was still speeding twenty minutes later, though he knew they weren’t being followed. Eventually and begrudgingly, he slowed his pace only because he needed to start looking for signs. He needed a hospital, but he’d settle for a phone.

            When he glanced across to his right he found blue eyes. The rage in them had subsided and the bleeding in his face clotted. Everything there seemed calmer.

            He couldn’t stare too long before looking back to the road, but he heard the little click of Gluskin’s lips parting. He jabbed at the radio until it turned on, cutting him off, and spun the dial until he found that old channel, because for some reason he remembered the numbers. He hoped it would drown the silence.

            It didn’t drown the patient, however. “Thank you.” His voice was different. The lilt he’d had, an affectation of charm, was gone. But neither was it the shaking rage expected. He sounded as tired as Waylon. He sounded almost lucid.

            That idea unsettled him more than the idea of the spitting, biting, lunging psycho he’d expected to have in the car.

            “Where are we going?”

            “To a hospital, or the cops,” Waylon told him honestly. “Or a phone. Whatever I see first.”

            Some old song in a different language—German—played quietly under their voices. Gluskin listened to the chorus before speaking again. “They’ll take me away from you. How is that safe?”

            Waylon tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “That’s the safest I’ll be,” he spit. “They’ll take you somewhere you need to be.”

            The other man’s gaze burned into his side. “To more doctors with more tests.” The edge was seeping back into his tone.

            “No, not like that place,” the programmer found himself promising. The song changed. “You’re going to tell everyone what they did to you, what you did, and you’ll go someplace better.”

            “What I did?” The cuffs pulled but not sharply. “I found you.” Gluskin waited, and then with no response, said, hushed, “I love you. Don’t you love me?”

            “You tried to kill me!” His adrenaline was wearing off and everything seemed to be buzzing. His abdomen was throbbing, his leg was too heavy, and underneath it all was a torrent of emotions, with no dominant one at the forefront.

            “You tried to leave me,” Gluskin said simply.

            There was no argument he could make against that insanity and engrained misogyny. Disgusting as it was, the latter part had been displaced, and he told him as much. “I’m not a woman.”

            “No, but you would’ve been.”

            “I never wanted that.” He passed a sign with a bold ‘H’ and an arrow underneath it. He turned the jeep to follow the direction.

            “Darling, you married me.” There was a sigh. “But you were lying like all the others, weren’t you? You were very good at it.”

            “I wanted to stay alive.”

            “I’m not mad,” Gluskin admitted, sounding surprised himself. “I should be, but you’re taking me away. You want me to be safe.”

            He never would’ve gotten away, and he almost shared the thought, but it was more than that, too. He was returning the favor. He’d been saved by the man far less than he’d been threatened, but the last rescue, selfless as it was, deserved that much.

            But there was still more to it, and Waylon used that last facet as his explanation. “You’re going to tell everyone what Murkoff did.”

            “Yes, I will do that for you.”

            “And then you’re going to stay in a hospital for the rest of your life; one where they’ll actually help you.” He glanced over. Gluskin had his head lolled back against the headrest, staring down the bridge of his nose at the smaller man.

            “What’s your name?”

            “Waylon.”

            “Waylon,” he breathed it like the knowledge of it were delicate glass. “Waylon.”

            The song changed again, and the driver knew this one. _La Vie En Rose_. It was French and he had never known the translation, but he knew of Edith Piaf. Gluskin knew, too, judging by his smile. Maybe he knew more than Waylon.

            “Will you come visit me, Waylon?”

            Waylon didn’t know how to answer, but he knew there was no getting away from his nightmare. He and Gluskin were the evidence as much as the footage in his lap. There was no getting away from it and Waylon couldn’t—wouldn’t let himself cower away from any of it anymore. Justice or reparations, he didn’t know if he’d ever get either, doubted they would ease his fear and guilt besides, but he was going to offer the both of them to find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, and a million times more for reading and sticking with me through this. I am so sorry it took me so long and I am so happy that I can finally deliver the ending to you. I truly hope it lives up to your expectations and that it gives the story closure for you.
> 
> I'm going to thank you all again, because I have never received so many kind and thoughtful comments on a work before, and I cannot tell you how grateful and humble it has made me.


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